Bitter Redress
by ineffablediann
Summary: John calls Moriarty's bluff leaving Sherlock to pick up the pieces. Implied Character Death,Sherlock Holmes/John Watson,Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Fallen Angels, Psychological Torture, Torture, Rape Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con
1. Chapter 1

It doesn't hurt me.

You wanna feel how it feels?

You wanna know, know that it doesn't hurt me?

You wanna hear about the deal I'm making?

You be running up that hill

You and me be running up that hill

And if I only could,

Make a deal with God,

And get him to swap our places,

Be running up that road,

Be running up that hill,

Be running up that building.

If I only could, oh...

You don't want to hurt me,

But see how deep the bullet lies.

Unaware that I'm tearing you asunder.

There is thunder in our hearts, baby.

So much hate for the ones we love?

Tell me, we both matter, don't we?

You, be running up that hill

You and me, be running up that hill

You and me won't be unhappy.

And if I only could,

Make a deal with God,

And get him to swap our places,

Be running up that road,

Be running up that hill,

Be running up that building,

If I only could, oh...

'C'mon, baby, c'mon, c'mon, darling,

Let me steal this moment from you now.

C'mon, angel, c'mon, c'mon, darling,

Let's exchange the experience, oh...'

And if I only could,

Make a deal with God,

And get him to swap our places,

Be running up that road,

Be running up that hill,

With no problems

Running Up That Hill ~ Placebo

* * *

_Do you want to know John? Really want to know what I am willing to do?_

That is what he had asked.

Little did I know it was one of the last conversations we would have.

_He always said he would burn the heart out of me. He understands it is so much more than that now. Don't you see John?_

He always loves how Sherlock called him by his given name. He was the only one given that luxury, a place in his mind, permanently etched. That had to be the reason the madman had begun to go off.

Running through the city, their city the night before. Evading the Met, Lestrade, prison. Due to prejudice really; that and envy. Disdain. Jealousy. Alright, multiple reasons for them to be running. They had to finish as they began so off they went into the dark sprinting to some form of safety.

_Then we ran right into Richard Brook. Fairy tale. Death author. Eater of souls. Spider._

You thought I didn't know about the early morning text.

You thought I didn't know Moriarty's mobile number.

I always told you I would protect you. From him, yourself, the world if necessary. You've never been weak; no. Your weakness has always been insatiable curiosity.

_Do you remember that first night Sherlock? The pink lady and the pill and the choice? Even then my heart knew before my mind. Your's too, but in opposite order._

_But wait, I'm getting ahead of myself...and behind._

I've been here before, he has as well, but all times accidental. Yes we ran toward danger but we knew deep down we'd pull out alive somehow. Not this time it seemed. Someone had to pay the blood-debt for the other to survive.

_You've alway mattered John. To me._

Hearing that had made the difference. Hopefully the letter I've left you will do the same.  
I'm just so very happy to have had this time with you if I don't survive this. You'll see it soon. It's placed on the workstation right beside your favored microscope.

_Oh, Johnny-boy. You are the best pet aren't you? Willing to fly instead of your angel are you? You know he lost his wings ages ago, don't you? But you've never had them...and it is poetic is it not? Your fall from grace? After all he's given?_

Sherlock, I pray this swap will be enough. I'm begging again, but this time for your life. Maybe mine will be just enough for yours. I pray it is.


	2. Chapter 2

_Come and play._  
_Bart's Hospital Rooftop._  
_I'll be the one in Blue._  
_-JW_

_P.S._  
_Included one possibly damned soul._  
_-JW_

John had hoped that Sherlock would not notice the fabricated argument. He was angry and fearful, which helped the honesty of his emotions enrich the lie.

"You...friends protect you Sherlock. Damn this. You can be so bloody...It's Mrs. Hudson..."

"I am aware John. I am also busy."

He knew this was the line of defence that Sherlock would throw up. He would do anything to move John away from the meeting he believed he was going to have with Moriarty within the early morning hour. Dawn. It was poetic. To have the light chase the darkness of all the pervasive lies away. The problem was, Sherlock had missed a variable in his equation, one Cpt. John H. Watson.

Sherlock's mobile chimed as John was about to begin again. He had to get the words out, before he answered. Had to make the impact so he would leave and go to Mrs. Hudson's aide. Mycroft, right on time. He hated going to him for help but he knew the elder Holmes would do anything to keep his brother safe. Between Greg and Mycroft he hoped the two men would be there when he no longer could be.

"You machine...you know...sod this. She is dying SHerlock. You had better catch the very next cab behind me or so help me...I'll never forgive you this."

"I never said I was on your side John...I'm no angel."

Those were the last words John heard from Sherlock's lips. John just hoped that his life was penance enough for the lunatic. Moriarty was always keen to kill John, and here he was offering himself up with no strings. He knew Moriarty was listening as well as monitoring the situation to some degree and would know if something was being withheld. John found himself praying, for the second time that night, that he never knew the connection between him and Stamford.

For now, at any rate, he hoped that Sherlock had left. There will be a later...a soon inevitable conversation to be had. John thought as he quickly darted to the right towards Stamford's office. He refused to involve Molly in this as she had never quite warmed to John due to her feelings toward Sherlock. It wasn't that John did not think she would be professional, but he did not want to involve her for intuitive reasons. It just felt wrong so he went to Stamford instead.

John turned yet again into the darkened corridor, he swiftly unlocked Stamford's office turning on the light as he entered before gauging the room as he re-locked it. Smiling tersely at his oldest friend they both had the look of all-business. Just then John's throw away vibrated twice letting him know Sherlock had indeed caught a cab and was heading toward Baker Street.

"That's it then, Mike. We don't have much time do we?"

"John, are you sure?"

"Look, we've been over this. It has to be done."

"This is just so complicated John. I know we've pulled some stunts in our time, but this still could be fatal for a myriad of possibilities."

"We have to do this. He is so much more important than I in this. Mike...I have to do this, yea?"

"Alright, chuck your coat and jumper. Roll your sleeves. Bloody hell...John. Let's do this then."

As John peeled off his layers, he pulled out the throw-away mobile and contacted his point man for the Irregulars.

"Raz, code beta. Got it?"

"Sure Doc, mobilizing. G.B. sighted."

"Thank you, Raz. For everything."

"See you on the other side Doc."

With that, John disconnected and pulled himself together internally. The Irregulars were fiercely loyal to Sherlock and many had built up the same level with John due to his deep compassion and his relationship with the man they all cared for.

They would watch him, let John know if things were off. Make sure Sherlock believed things were going the way he wanted until it was too late to stop John. Hopefully the small contingency would be here soon as well.

"Should I pray for a miracle Mike?"

"That's all I have been doing since last night mate."

"He had a squash ball with him you know, Sherlock, that is. Was playing with it bouncing it against one of the tables when I went into the lab. Made me think he had figured out what I was up too."

"Well I haven't told a soul. Just you and I in on this. Molly's out for the day so she won't even know until she gets back on Monday. Well, unless she turns on the telly at her sister's, but she won't be here for the worst of it I suppose."

"Mycroft had the double delivered?"

"He's waiting for his grand entrance."

"This is going to be near impossible. Has to be entirely believable..."

"Just keep relaxed as possible for the next bit while I finish yea?"

"Yea, sorry."  
As prepared as he could be, he headed up toward the roof. Stamford was on his way to the E.R. for a little chatting up and coffee. Then to grab Nancy and their provisions once Sherlock was seen heading back on campus. John knew that the letter and mini iPod were safely ensconced in the envelope waiting for Sherlock. He hoped Sherlock would find one of the three left by that evening.

Even Mycroft had a copy, just incase something had happened to the other's John had left. One under John's pillow, one in Sherlock's violin case, one here in the lab. Mycroft had the master copy, John's will, and USB with all that had been recorded for Sherlock to find.

'Onward and upward...' John thought. "Please let this go as planned. Please spare Sherlock...'

All that was left was one fleeting step after exchanging his life for Sherlock's. There was never a question that he wouldn't do this for him. It was obvious, which is why Sherlock never saw it coming. It was in plain sight, but so much had occurred...it had been so frenetic he had hope beyond hope that at least Sherlock would survive this day.

The sun rise looked beautiful coming over London. He was thankful for this. They were sharing one last sunrise even though John had the better vantage point. Sherlock would be arriving shortly to their flat, find Mrs. Hudson fine after checking her flat over. Then his mobile would chime with a text from him. He would be back at Bart's at a much faster rate as Mycroft would make sure his brother had no traffic stopping him. Sherlock would tell him to do so and never know until later that it was planned in this manner.

Moriarty was waiting for him of course. He always had been the dramatist.

"Good morning, Jim." John greeted the thin man that was sitting on the ledge of the roof he would soon pitch off of.

"Morning Sunshine!" Jim replied, mirth deep and resounding. "Hope there's a spring in your step this morning!"

"Oh, I'm quite certain of it..."

"Well you always have been so devoted. I must admit this was a bit of a twist though. Resourceful even. It will make it so much easier to console him you know?"

"Well, let's see about that shall we? I'm pretty sure it's none of your business how he mourns."

"Well you'll be dead John. Thank you for this by the way, re-balancing the scales. You should have died already. Pets never outlive their Masters don't you know? So technically it won't be any of your business either."

Moriarty was twirling around him now, taunting him. It was no less than John imagined. He smiled tight-lipped and mercilessly at the younger man.

"Must kill you that he loves me though...doesn't it? That's why you did all of this business, making him look like a fraud. Knowing that I was able to love him first? I should thank you by the way. It was your stunt with the that blessed me with his first kiss."

"Oh, but Irene got everything else didn't she John?"

"No, she didn't. I was still his first. Does that burn you Jim? I was the first and only to be able to love him. He'll never let you near him."

"Oh Johnny, how quickly you forget. I've been to your flat twice now since this little debacle began...he welcomed me quite graciously. I played him my version of "Partita Number One." Seems like he's been tapping it ever since. Liked my little gift. You popping off into oblivion only releases him from his silly little ideas of first loves and tentative kisses. I'll give him as good as he can give, just you watch...Oh wait! You won't be able too!"

Their little dance had brought them close to the edge. Enough that John could look over and see the Irregulars starting to place themselves. Thank goodness he had them choose who to come today, there was only one John recognised. Jenny. She was here most days they were, so it wouldn't seem odd for her to be there now. Good. Then he felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket;  
hearing the soft muffled movement Moriarty smiled beatifically.

"Ah. Here we are at last – you and me and Sherlock. Our problem – the final problem for you."

"May I have a moment, please?"

John takes a moment to look at his mobile.

_John, no. _  
_-SH_

_S-_  
_Fifty-Seven_  
_-JW_

"Yes," Moriarty looks over John's shoulder, "you want to send a farewell. Might as well Johnny-boy seeing as how I'll be the one kissing him over your cold-grave. Make it a good one yea? He loves the dramatic..."

"Yes, like you stealing the crown jewels? Crashing the banks to give him a merry chase?"

"Daylight robbery. All it takes is some willing participants. All dead now of course, wouldn't want anyone to talk..." Moriarty sings glibly. "Glad you chose a tall building. Nice touch. Bit poetic as this is where you two met...but Romeo, don't think for one second I'll let you Juliette follow any time soon. Besides, like he'd end his life over a trivial thing such as you anyway."

"No, he'll go on. And defeat you."

"Of course. I'm sure he will pet. Looks like you have an audience gathering, off you pop!"

As Moriarty begins to walk a safe distance away John begins to chuckle.

"What? Gone mad at the last moment?"

John continues to chuckle, but creeping into it is a frosty edge that hasn't graced his lips since Afghanistan. He had Moriarty and he knew it; it was quite possible he wouldn't have to jump after all.

"What is it?!" Moriarty roared at him.

"I don't have to jump if I've got you..." John sing-songs mocking the younger man's tone from earlier.

"You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?"

"Yes, I believe I can." John pulled his gun aiming point blank towards Moriarty. He clearly had the advantage and was going to take it.

"Naah. You talk big. Naah. You're ordinary – you're on the side of the angels."

"Maybe I am, but don't mistake me for one anymore. You may never knew this, but I was the one that killed Jefferson Hope that night. I had only known Sherlock for less than forty-eight hours at that point. I killed a man to save him even back then. Imagine what I am willing to do now."

Moriarty takes a hard look at John then steps toward him realizations painting over his face.

"No, you're not one anymore, are you?"

"No, Jim, I'm not."

"You're just ordinary, he loves you ordinary."

"He never knew otherwise. Never told him."

"Thank you. Bless you."

Moriarty extends his hand accepting some form of defeat; lowering his gaze toward their feet. John tentatively accepts it and begins to turn Moriarty's arm around his back.

"As long as I'm alive, you can save yourself and him; you've got a way out..."

"Yes, we just mi-"

"Well good luck with that!"

As Moriarty yells into John's ear he yanks out of his grasp forcing a struggle with John. He knocks them both over onto the gravel-strewn roof scuffling for control knowing what has to be done. He will not be bested at his own game. Wresting control, he forces the shot point blank at his chest, barely missing his heart. John jumps back in utter shock and horror.

"Jim! Damn you!"

The younger man smiles triumphantly up at John even as the doctor tries to see if there is a chance of salvage him before Moriarty bleeds out on the roof of the hospital. They'd never make it down in time and they both know it.

"Make it a good one Johnny...Now you have to jump...otherwise he dies...no one to call it off no-"

"Jim? Fu...No!"

John bounds up breathing heavily trying not to hyperventilate quite yet, but it seems his body has other ideas. As he paces the rooftop calculating if he could get a message to Mycroft to get Sherlock out of London, his mobile chimes. He knows it's time.

There's nothing left for it now, this must be done.

_'Please, Lord, let me live.'_

He sends up a third and final prayer before answering.

"Hello Sherlock..."


	3. Chapter 3

"John?"

"Hey, Sherlock, you okay?" God, he hated doing this, but there really was no other option. That ship, as they say, has sailed. "Turn around and walk back the way you came now..."

"No, John, I'm coming in. I'm so-"

"Sherlock!" John tensed and raised his voice grounding it in authoritative tones. "Just do as I ask. Please. Listen for once without question."

"Alright John...where would you have me go? Another goose chase? You can obviously see me so you aren't in the lab..."

"No, no I'm not Sherlock. If you listen I am sure you can derive exactly where I am at this very moment."

His heart welled into his throat watching Sherlock's coat sway as he decidedly retraced his steps stopping only when he was in the spot where he had alighted from the cab. He turned in a circle as he scanned the nearby buildings for John's profile.

"Not street level, mate."

"John-"

"Moriarty confessed. I have the recording...I'm so sorry Sherlock."

"For what? Come down John."

"Do you know the first time I met you, I had already been contemplating this? Of course you did."

"John. Stop th-"

"Just as you knew about my sister. Her drinking. Us not getting on at all. You once told me you never guess, never assume. That night you did about her. Later you did again about me."

"Enough. Stop this. I'll be right there." Sherlock began long strides back toward the side entrance of Bart's. "John, please..."

"Stop or I'll go right now. You'll never know why Sherlock..."

"A-alright," He came to an abrupt full stop at those words trying to meet John's eyes in the distance. "Explain, please, John..."

"I ... I ... I can't come down, so we'll ... we'll just have to do it like this. I'm so sorry."

"Do what? What exactly is going on. Tell me."

John shuddered as tears began welling that he refused to allow to fall. They met his heart in his throat and choked the sob his body was involuntarily forcing upon him. It would be done soon, he hoped it went all to plan.

"This phone call it's... it's my note. It's what people do."

"No! John. No."

"There is just so much Sherlock. I tried to be better. I can't anymore. Moriarty is gone you see so you'll be safe. Away from me, it will be better. You do not need me, you'll see."

"Jo-"

"I worked for him you know. Jim. He helped me financially for little pieces of information. That's why he went to kill me at the pool. He was jealous. I was your pet now, not hi-"

"JOHN! NO! Do. Not. Lie. To. Me. I know better than all that!"

"Do you?"

"Yes I-"

"No, you don't. Know though I do think you are the very best thing that ever entered my life Sherlock. I'm just no good anymore. Played out...I betrayed you." The tears came then. He could never stand to lie, especially now knowing these words would be the last he physically spoke to Sherlock; possibly ever. "It's all been a trick. Sleight of hand, is all. Magic."

"Please John, do this for me, come to me...we will sort it all."

"Goodbye, Sherlock."

John takes in the distant form of the man he would sacrifice everything for. Might do now anyway. Moving his arms away from his body, he hears Sherlock screaming his name through the mobile; not being able to stand it he throws it behind him onto the roof to be found. Just one more piece for Sherlock to hold on to. Maybe it would reside beside Irene's after it was given to him. Maybe it and the rest would give him comfort. Mouthing the words he couldn't stand to say over the call, he sent to the wind praying their caress would reach Sherlock at any rate.

All it took was one step.

Then air. John wondered what terminal velocity was again as he hit solid ground.

* * *

Sherlock sprinted toward the hospital alleyway.

_It can't be._

_It is not possible._

_His John._

"NO!" An anguished cry escaped him. So focused on getting to John he runs regardless of any traffic and is toppled by a cyclist that swerved to miss yet still clipped him. The impact did not feel that hard, but as he lift his head there was white noise and fuzzing of the edges of his peripheral vision.

_Minor concussion. John will see to him._

_Oh._

"John Hamish! NO!"

Reaching his friend, he could see the pool gathering.

_Two, maybe three liters._

Growing rapidly.

"Christ no! Let me through! Please!"

Sherlock was able to snake his hand under to find John's wrist frantic for a pulse, yet finding none. His legs went out from under him at this point. John could not be gone. It was impossible as Sherlock was still breathing. Next thing he knew Lestrade was hauling him up, cuffing him, leading him to his car. Reminding him that Mycroft and his counsel could be called as soon as they reached the Met. That he had several questions to answer.

Donovan looked upon him in smug satisfaction and disgust. "Always said you'd be the end of him. You'd put a body on the ground. How's it feel freak? Good as you had hoped?"

"SALLY! Enough!" Lestrade roared. "You bigoted self-centered child. He is not mentally ill. Selfishness, Sally is never becoming of an officer. Consider yourself reprimanded. Come in for formal statement and declaration. You are off the case, and if I have anything to say about it, you'll lose your rank as well!"

"John..." Sherlock quietly states to no one in particular as he is seated in the car.

"It'll be alright, mate. Sherlock. Look at me, we'll get this sorted quickly...so you can...get back to him, yea?"

All Sherlock heard over the implosion of his metaphorical heart was the close of the door and start of the engine. John was gone. He jumped. He was gone. Crumpling in on himself he wept all the way. Everyone that saw him as he was escorted to his cell were silent. There was no triumph in this. They had already began receiving evidence of the falsehood of Richard Brook, how it had been an anagram, not unlike another popular fictional villains. That was where the lunatic had probably gotten the idea of The Storyteller. That's what his diaries called this persona.

He wanted to destroy the greatest mind London had ever seen. To those involved closest, it looked as if he had done just that.

Sherlock still had to face charges of evasion, but it was all handled closed doors later that day. He had been given leniency as his and at least one detectives life had hung in the balance, possibly more as Moriarty was a bomber. By the time he was released though, Harry had already collected John and had him at the funeral home. It was a clean-cut case of suicide via coercion. The perpetrator, James Moriarty, found dead at the scene.

Cold comfort to Sherlock was the cell with the dead battery found on the roof handed to him by Lestrade as he dropped him off at Baker.

Seventeen stairs. Then fifteen more.

Opening the door, it smelled of clean laundry and John.

Tossing his coat to the floor, he held John's phone, and lay on John's bed inhaling deeply as he knew this scent would dissipate quickly now. As he pulled the pillow toward him to hold he wept working his hand over the material. His precious friend had just lain here hours ago restful, lightly snoring. Now he wouldn't breath again. In the midst of mourning his fingers ran across the feel of an edge within the pillowcase and he sat upright, yanking out the anomaly.

In the middle of the envelope, Sherlock's first name in John's neat handwriting. He could feel the weight and odd balance. More than a letter then. Holding it to his chest, he lay back down on John's pillow unwilling to break the seal. he was not ready to face the truth of it all. Not yet. In the morning.

Falling asleep just where John had been warming the bed seemed like a much better proposition. At least he'd have the possibility of seeing him again, at least for a sweet moment, before facing the harshness to come.

"You too, John... in all ways."


	4. Chapter 4

Thirty-two months.

Four days.

Eleven hours.

John's birthday.

Sherlock would soon stop by the florist with the bright blue painted door and wide windows for the flowers. He had already called Angelo to say he would indeed be there this evening. Seventeen step later, Sherlock was sliding the envelope with symphony tickets for Mrs. Hudson and her new beau under her door as he headed out.

"Lestrade?"

"No cases today, mate. Sorry."

"Actually I was wondering if you'd like to grab lunch...with me."

It was what John had asked. For him not to stop; and he hadn't. He mourned, oh God had he mourned his doctor. He missed him so very deeply, but finally, thanks to the ones around him, his friends, he had survived. Now, he was social with a select few. Those who had respected and cared for John the most.

He was nervous for the first time in ages. Mycroft, of course, had suggested against the purpose of the lunch but all Sherlock was trying to gauge was possibility. He and Lestrade had known each other for years before John; and Lestrade, at one time, had expressed an interest. It was perfectly logical. They both would understand the hours they kept, and even though they liked different things it was not necessarily a bad match. They could teach and learn together. If there were a possibility. So, at half three, Sherlock strolled into the pub looking for Greg. Meeting his eyes, he gave a nod and headed toward the Detective Inspector.

"Greg! So how's the body count today?" Sherlock asked mischievously.

"Jesus Sherlock! You and the gallows go hand in hand! My day is just fine thank you."

"So, a pint? Order yourself some food as well, you haven't ate in almost twenty-four hours."

"Not eating yourself?"

"No, not until later this evening. Angelo's"

"It's today isn't it? His birthday right?"

"Yes. Forty. Auspicious age for most men. I would have loved to seen him- well I'm not here to discuss John..."

"I thought not. So what are we here for then, Sherlock?"

"Well, I wanted to ask you about your social calendar actually..."

"You mean if I'm seeing anyone?"

"Yes. Exactly so Greg. So, are you?"

"Funny you mention that. I have someone I wanted you to meet and was hoping if it went well, you might be able to put in a good word with your brother, yea? He's so damned posh, but I bet there's lots underneath that to explore."

It took Sherlock a moment, but he quickly swept aside any disappointment as he hadn't planned on starting anything quite yet. No, that was fine. All fine in fact. He smiled warmly thinking on all the interesting things that could occur getting Greg and his brother together. Might get Mycroft to not be as restrictive in his personal life.

"Alright Greg. Just because it amuses me terribly, not because I need someone in my life as yet."

"I have to admit," He looked sheepishly toward Sherlock, "that I forgot today was John's birthday. Mind you I knew it was coming up and planned to visit him this weekend, but I sorta told this fellow you'd meet him tonight possibly."

"Tonight is John's night, Lestrade. It wouldn't be right."

"What if you met for drinks before dinner? If things went well, the meal could be involved yea? He knows about your loss. That you're not ready for anything to stick, but not exactly against a night at the pub either with friends."

"It's what John would have wanted. I know...please don't drag that one out into the discussion. Fine. Six sharp. You know what I'll be wearing tonight. Tell this friend to meet me at The Volunteer."

"Cheers! This will be just grand..."

"One will see. Or you'll be getting a wrathful mate on your door demanding a body."

"Sherlock!"

* * *

Thirty-two months.

Four days.

Eleven hours.

The flight had been exhausting. He was just thankful that it was a private flight this time, not strict military transport. It felt good to be back in London. Finally done with the dismantling using the aide of his new status with MI6. His job finally complete. Nothing had mattered but the finish line. Nothing but Sherlock. Finally, he would be able to see him again.

Forty.

His hair was a little shorter and more silver, but that was ok. he was home and in one piece. Only a few new scars on his body; it would give Sherlock plenty to categorise. John bet that he'd be able to tell everywhere he'd been without John saying a word once he was done. Pleasant thought that. Breathe the same air, touch his skin, kiss him until he couldn't breath; then John would breathe for the both of him.

"Mycroft?"

"John, good to hear your voice. Well rested I hope?"

"Yes. Got in last night. Going to debrief and then head out to pick up the necessities."

"Ah, yes. So who's your partner tonight?"

"I had thought you would have figured it out My. Not very observant today are we?"

"John. We've talked about this-"

"And I am done talking. Done with women. Done with this...well for now."

"I'll heighten security tonight. You must figure out where it is going to be the most appropriate."

"Oh, I already know that too..."

"Angelo's?"  
"See, there you go Mycroft. Flex that brain."

"John-"

"No, your majesty, I'll not hear any of it. Don't get all poncy with me. You know this was my goal all along."

"John, listen. He's- well he might be indisposed this evening."

"What exactly do you mean, indisposed? Mycroft?"

"He might have a date..."

"Not possible. Your brother does not date. Never has."

"Partially true. Never dated until he met you."

"Is he dating someone? Oh my god..."

"No, not exactly. Gregory has set him up with someone though."

"Damn! Bloody hell! No. I'm going over there right now! Fuck the debrief, you have my notes at any rate."

"John, you need your identi-"

"Has he had sex?"

"Joh-"

"Mycroft Holmes, you tell me right this instant. I have a ring in my pocket for your brother and you very well know it. Tell me now. I deserve to know..."

"Personally, why would it matter? Isn't that a little puritan of you? You had lesions of your ow-"

"To track people! Not for pleasure! For fucks sake My-"

"You two never were intimate were you?"

"We slept together."

"My brothers status, as far as I knew had been changed after the brush with the Woman. I thought the two of you dealt with...No. Not my area. This is your mess John. You sort it."

"Could you call in Greg?"

"One step ahead as always John, see you at half-past."


	5. Chapter 5

John could not believe what he was hearing. He supposed he should be glad in a way that Sherlock finally felt as if he could move on; that John had helped to open that side and that others had nurtured it in his stead. Who was he coming home to now? How much had Sherlock changed? How much had he?

_Well he was more fit; better than he had been in the army even._

_More alert too._

_He had learned and applied many of Sherlock's techniques now as easily as breathing._

_He never would be as observant, but he got by rather well._

_He was harder emotionally. Killing does that to a person he supposed._

_But not where Sherlock was concerned._

_No, that was the opposite._

_That, John wanted to surrender to._

_John had changed._

He just hoped Sherlock would still have the same regard he had for John as he had before he had died to save them. All of them. Would Sherlock forgive him as John would have if the rolls were reversed. He sounded as if he had slowly blossomed and John desperately wished he had been there for that knowing it might never had occurred if he had been at Baker. Sherlock sounded like he might have finally grown into a great man. John was so very proud.

The stairs were taken two at a time at The Diogenes. He rapped twice on the door before entering Mycroft's office away from his office. Really, it was more like holding court. Everyone who entered these old solid doorways knew that. Even John. That never stopped his strops, never pulled his punches the few times they occurred, but today, his feet came to a full stop as they passed the threshold seeing one Mr. Gregory Lestrade, D.I. sitting very casually in one of the high backed leather chairs having tea with My.

The wait staff came in behind him with a third chair and set-up. He could smell his favorite blend from memory, knowing it was in the small tin, just waiting to be poured over. Gregory had yet to see him, so John moved boldly into the room sitting in the chair that had just been placed taking up the conversation immediately without skipping a beat. It took a full thirty seconds for him to realize who had spoken. When he did, Greg threw his cup and saucer toward the small center table before he could drop them and stood wrapping his arms around John.

"For fucks sake! John! Oh blessed heaven! You're alive!"

"Yes. That I am. I've missed you Greg."

"Boisterous, Gregory." Mycroft softly chided.

"Shut it Mycroft! You knew! Poor Sherlock. John, you should be ashamed of yourself. He almost committed suicide twice because of your arse."

Greg looked right pissed at John. The want to murder him plainly on his face as the need to find out the man in front of him was truly tangible.

"I didn't know Greg. It had to be done, everyone's lives were at stake. At least this way you all had a chance to live even if I wound up being gone for good. It was enough to allow me to sacrifice the life I wanted so he could live."

"Ah, so you've been 'promoted' then?" Relying heavily on his reasoning he could see the still tight control that John was exuding. "Retiring now?"

"I hope to, yes. So I hear you have set Sherlock up on a date tonight? Anyway you can cancel that?"

"Why would I?"

"Well, now that John is home..." Mycroft interjected placidly. The assumption heavy in the air suppressing any further argument.

"Alright. So who'll meet Sherlock?"

"I will. Your friend will beg ill, or whatever excuse you choose. He will go through his day and I will be there waiting at Angelo's. We'll close the restaurant for the night anyway due to the security detail so nothing will seem odd to Sherlock. He's used to that by now, on Danger Night's like these. We never know who might be after him since he is still highly publicised from time to time, but we all are a little more careful now aren't we?"

"Damn John. You have changed." Greg genuinely had a look of utter surprise across his face. His whole body language changed Greg really took in John for the first time since entering the room. "I don't know how I feel about it really."

"No, I was always better at hiding this side. Not so much anymore."

"I still think you should allow them to meet." Greg continued. "What if he could be happy John? What if he chooses not to forgive you and shuts off entirely? I don't know if I want that wasted. We've become close."

"It's not your choice Greg. You know...well you should know how we felt for one another before...before I left-"

"You mean jumped of a bloody-arsed building to your death? Or before you made all of us mourn you? Or maybe it was the time you left the person you loved to die because you ripped his heart out?"

"Really, Gregory." Mycroft spoke placidly."We've explained it. There was no other way."

"Doesn't make it any better for your brother though, now does it?"

"We won't know until we let John try..."

"Well then let him be there tonight after the date. Make Sherlock tea or something. Have him waiting at Baker Street for Sherlock to come home. Isn't that more romantic at any rate? Definitely more private."

John seemed to visibly deflate. Everything that Greg was saying was true, he had no doubt. John charging in were sure to complicate matters far more than just waiting quietly for Sherlock to return home. Damn, he was being so selfish about everything. This wasn't just about him now that he was finally here; it was about the possibility of them.

"Ta. Fine. Right, might as well give him the shock there? Where it can be controlled?" John could not help as the irritation bled through. "I'll just go back to the hotel and clean up like a good poppet, yea? Wait further instruction?"

He really was trying to dampen the mix of anger and chagrin as his words flew heedlessly into the room. John missed the man so much that finally being home, in the same city, was beginning to eat at him in not good ways. He hadn't been selfish this entire time, and now John felt it was time to allow himself to reawaken everything he had shoved away as he pushed the soldier in him to finish the task he had taken on.

John knew, in the long scheme, he had done what was right. He was able to save several lives including the one that mattered most to him. It was the matter of sacrifice that had now decided that it was time to be able to open the locker where every good thing in John's life had been hastily stuffed away. Hidden to not be examined too closely as that would have interfered with the tasks he had set out to complete.

"John," Gregory calmed and tried to reason with him. "It will be very upsettin-"

"No. It might be a shock, but Sherlock has more mental tenacity than you or I combined. Mycroft knows this. It is even possible he is beginning to figure out that I may still be alive..."

Mycroft looked uncomfortable at this sentiment. "John, I am sorry. You need to remember how thorough we were. How careful you have been. He really does believe you gone, even though he still speaks to you fondly while on a case instead of the insufferable skull; that and visits on your birthday. He has had to move on or lose his mind."

"I can't believe he can't feel it. The knowledge that life is just there." John slumped back into the deep chair. "Maybe he holds to the theory that no thing can really be unmade. Maybe he forced himself to believe we carry on afterward...so maybe he still holds out hope..."

"John, calm yourself. You really are stretching. Do not be so desperate it is beneath you."

"Yea, mate."Greg accented. "It's great having you back with the living. Brilliant really. Just give him time and be gentle. Go to Baker Street and wait for him. Be kind. He's a bit changed, maybe softer...you'll just have to see it for yourself to understand."


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock made sure the flat was clean. The parlor table was still haphazardly semi-covered in papers and books, but he figured if he did indeed invite this mystery person back, that he would forgive the small slight.

Why was he even concerned with such a trivial issue?

He had hoped that Lestrade would have been up for seeing if they could make their relationship go into a different direction, but he had been completely oblivious. Sherlock really had expected nothing less. He wasn't clear enough on purpose to get a true answer, and that is exactly what he received. That, and a date of sorts. Well this was an interesting turn of events and as such, needed exploration. So with that thought in mind, a more stoic Sherlock left the flat trying to look into a future with someone beside him that was not his John.

It wasn't a terribly brisk early evening; by London standards it was quite nice actually. Sherlock strolled lost in thought for the few blocks to The Volunteer, his masterfully made walking cane setting a nice metered beat allowing his mind to create a slightly-whimsical off-beat composition.  
He really had no need for it, but it was a very special gift that was very-much-so deadly in the proper hands. Such a set of hands as both Holmes now possessed. Mycroft had seen to it personally going with him to the temple to meet his Master and humbly ask training for his sibling. It had been thrilling, painful, and clarifying.

Sherlock remembered those days. How they had been darkened and grey, then as he mentally healed and physically changed he began to meditate. Finally after almost ten months of intense focus and exertion Sherlock was finally able to master himself. Quieting his mind as he wished or letting it spiral and loop into some of the most delicate harmonies one had ever heard; the only thing ever present was John. Yet John was gone. He had to move forward, Sherlock knew that now. He would never make the mistake of hiding John or how he felt about him to anyone coming into his life to share any sort of intimacy. He had decided to be honest and knew he could love John in the depths of his heart and build from it a new life. One John would be glad for. To see that Sherlock had not withered even though it had been so very close.

No, Sherlock would honor John. Show him that he was forever in his debt, and if lucky, maybe meetup beyond the veil and have their time then.

I was just shy of six as he entered the welcoming pub. White walls, all wooden tables and mismatched chairs. Welcoming. He headed toward the bar to order a pint of their most recent porter acquisition. It was something he had learned he had a palate and enjoyed. Another thing to thank John for one day...but now wasn't about him. No, now it was about the twenty-nine year old author walking through the doors. Ciaran Rhys Brennan.

His eyes met Sherlock's smiling as he made his way to order for himself as well.

"Hello, Sherlock. Nice to meet you."

"The same, I think." Sherlock tentatively smiled quirking the side of his mouth.

"Oh see! Now you've gone and done it. The boyish charm right? Gods, you are a devil. Lestrade warned me about you."

"Boyish? Lestrade warned you?" Now this was interesting. Getting caught off-guard. The slight off-kilterness. "What about your cock-sure attitude? It should be illegal the way your eyes carry a conversation in seconds. Completely open."

"Ah, saw that, did you?" Ciaran chuckled, "Well, you are practically gorgeous you know. Blame God, not me for that little fact."

"Ah, Catholic, yes."

"I also know you give a whit about religion, so throw that out the window for tonight. You're not brushing me off, or frightening me off. Greg's told me all about you so do not even think somewhere in that massive beautiful mess that you are going to scare me off." He looked directly into Sherlock's eyes as his smile softened. "I know, and it's all ok. I just want a fair shot at us getting to know each other. Fair?"

"Well then you know I have pretty much figured out everything about you, so since at this point we are past all the awkward 'getting to know you' we finish here and possibly have dinner?"

"Really? No hard to get?"

"No, Ciaran, not tonight. I promised someone I'd try to find happiness again. Tonight seems like the right time, don't you agree?"

"Let's eat here then. I'll split with you as I know you are terrible at finishing a meal and that will leave room for later when you go...well that's later. Not now. So yea? Find us a table and I'll order?"

* * *

Three hours, four pints, one very interesting pork and chorizo burger with chips smothered in cheese, and a salted caramel and chocolate dessert that had been topped with cream Sherlock thought Ciaran was the devil himself.

"I cannot believe you got me to eat those!"

"Oh, says the man who dies over the sweets?"

"Well-"

"No, Sherlock, admit it. You enjoy the sharing. It was a challenge of fortitude. And with a fork? Really? Who does that?"

"I didn't want the grease on my fingers. I would be uncomfortable doing this if they were...sticky."

"Doing what, Sherlock?" Ciaran asked glibly. "Your hands are clearly doing half of your talking. I'm amazed you even need to speak at all!"

"This..." Sherlock raised out of his chair, bent over the table, and taking Ciaran's face in his hands lightly kissed him before sitting unruffled but smiling impishly.

"Oh!" He blinked unexpectedly. "Ta! Didn't expect that as yet!"

"You, Ciaran, are a terrible liar. Well, you were hoping, maybe not exactly expecting..."

"You really are amazing you know."

"Ciaran...I don-"

"It's alright, mate. Soon, maybe. It was nice tonight wasn't it?"

Sherlock mulled the evening over. Neither had been bored or felt stretched as he was wont to do with most people. No, this had been a nice evening.

"Would you like to go with me?"

"Not this time, but yes Sherlock, I'd love to go meet John sometime."

They both rose knowing the evening was just beginning for Sherlock. Ciaran and he walked out of the pub looking very couplish, which later would twist Mycroft to no end, but for now it was right.

"Well good night then, little pirate." Before Sherlock could extend a hand Ciaran gathered him up and kissed him softly letting his lips speak the hope he would not say out loud. Pulling slowly away he met Sherlock's stardust tinted eyes. "God you really are a beautiful treasure. Don't hide yourself away from me, please?"

"I- I can't promise anything yet Ciaran, but I will try. Is that good enough?"

"For me, yes. Thank you for the lovely evening."

With that, Ciaran turned and walked across toward the road slipping into a cab before being whisked into the night. A few moments later as Sherlock headed toward his destination his mobile chimed.

_Thank you again._  
_You're wonderful. ~ Ciar_

_You are the devil in this equation. -SH_

_Oh tread lightly, please._

_You are flirting, are you not? -SH_

_Yes._  
_But I can hear your smoke-dark voice in my head now._  
_Not helping._  
_I'm trying to be a gentleman._

_Gentleman? -SH_  
_Oh. You like my voice?-SH_

_I thought you were supposed to be clever? :)_  
_Bril deduction, little pirate._

_I thought your lips were very soft. -SH_

_Murder me now plz_

_I do not think either of us would think that interesting. -SH_

_Damn it. Play nice._  
_Make me plot the map._

_What map? -SH_

_Yours, treasure._  
_To your long buried heart._

_221B Baker Street._  
_Come at once. -SH_

_You positive?_  
_Don't want this to be rubbish_  
_in the morning._

_Come find me, Ciaran. -SH_


	7. Chapter 7

John was upstairs, in his old room. Things were quiet here in Baker. He knew Sherlock wouldn't be home for hours still so it was easy to relax into his old comfort zone. The bedroom door was locked and the light was off. Still. He could slow and think about how he wanted things to play out. How he could not wait to hold Sherlock, cry with him, kiss him. The only warning he had was the beginning of a vibration in his pocket as the ground floor door opened filling the foyer with the voices of Sherlock and another man.

His heart plummeted.

_This could not be happening._

"Ciaran."

"No, little pirate. Upstairs with you."

_Pirate? Little?_

_Oh god..._

_nononono..._

"No map?"

"No, no map, treasure. You're right here."

John heard the kitchen entrance slide open then close followed by another door a minute and a half later that could only be Sherlock's.

_Fuck._

John looked at his phone.

_Apologies. -M_

_Tell Greg FUCK OFF. -J_

_Better yet, tell him to come interrupt would you? -J_

_I'm stuck up here until god knows when now. -J_

_His phone is off. -M_

_OF COURSE IT IS! -J_

_He_

_John, calm yourself. -M_

_He does not know you are alive. You have a choice. Five or six actually. -M_  
_John? -M_

_No, My. I can hear him._

_I'll be right there. Use fire escape from your room. -M_

_Will have scotch. -M_

_No Greg. -M_

_No, don't want to run. I'll go down in the morning make us breakfast. -J_

_Celebrate his first shag and me being alive. -J_

_How can I be alive with no heart? -J_

_JOHN. -M_

_No, My, at least I can pretend it's me. Fucked up isn't it? -J_

_Never wanted to love someone like I love him. He sounds happy. -J_

_Come down. -M_

_Can't. Wrecked. -J_

Mycroft gingerly opened the window and stooped into the room traversing and stuffing a towel at the crack between the door and the hallway. Taking the other he folded it over the floor vent to help dampen the sound. He sat wordlessly beside John and offered him a glass then opened the scotch pouring a generous amount into both.

"Cheers."

"Don't we make the pair?"

"You're not the one listening to your brother...well no I think you have the worst of this."

"Yea, I do. Ta!"

"Here is what we will do. He will hate us mind you, well it is a 98% chance that he will. As I'm your handler, you can take it as an order. As a friend you can take it as an old college prank."

"Oh God My, I need to be more drunk for this. I'm not even a bit buzzed."  
"We are not shagging each other John. No! You are my brother's as attractive as you are. I have some propriety. No, I think we go full-english for them in the morning. Tonight, you drink a bit more, then we'll go shop."

"I was joking Mycroft!"

"Well I am not John. I'm damned upset with Sherlock at this very moment and hurting him a bit doesn't even seem to re-pay all that you have done for him. He has always been so damn careless."

"I am going to regret this..."

"Maybe not. Maybe this is exactly what he needs. Shock to the system. Live wire. He needs someone who will be able to protect him. That is you John. Not whomever he has in his bed tonight."

"I just...fuck...I just hope he's...gent...no...fu-" John stops mid sentence and downs the liquid ignoring the burn and pours himself another downing it with the same speed. He curls with his elbows on his knees biting his fist so the sobs are quieted at least.

"Oh, John..." Mycroft sighs. "Come on, lets go."

"No. I'll kill Greg. I will. If I leave right now I will go to the pub and fuck him right up."

_Hope you are satisfied. -M_

_What for? -G_

_My brother is currently indisposed_  
_with the date you set up. -M_

_Good for them. -G_

_Bad for John. He was here when they came up. -M_

_Are you still there? For god's sake please tell me you got him out. -G_

_No. And I am holding you responsible for the aftermath in the morning. -M_

_Pray these two can forgive each other. You should not have interfered. -M_

_I really didn't think. Tell John sorry. -G_

_No. You didn't. -M_

_No. I won't. Be a man Gregory. Tell him yourself._  
_You've done the one thing almost three years of work didn't._  
_You've broken him. -M_

Mycroft sent off one more message to The Hub telling them to ignore all further communication from D.I. Lestrade unless it is life threatening. Then, turning to John, he uncurled his friend comforting him. "It's alright John. You've had many before him and it does not tarnish the love you have for him. You know it's different then. When feelings are involved. Deep ones. New is exciting, but you both have something I have never seen."

"Alright. Breakfast it is. And if I'm an arsehole, let me be. Most of it will just be taking the piss, but a lot will be real. I promise not to kill his boyfriend and I'll try not to punch him."

"Fine terms John. Now, let's kill them with kindness shall we?"


	8. Chapter 8

The flat was quiet as he unlocked the main door.

Then there was life. Laughter. The two men were caught in the moment. Ciaran pushed him deftly up against the wall kissing him in such a tender manner.

"Ciaran..."

"No, little pirate. Upstairs with you."

Sherlock went back in for another kiss; he could not believe how soft his mouth was. So supple for such a useful part of the body. Ciaran nipped gently opening his mouth in slight shock then filling it with his tongue exploring Sherlock until he almost was light-headed.

"No map?"

"No, no map, treasure. You're right here."

Ciaran grabbed Sherlock's hand and motioned as to which way to go. Sherlock led him upstairs to the kitchen entry and slid the door open in welcome.

"This is mine..."

"Just the kitchen? Sleep on the table then?"

"No, it's this way..."

"Shame, it'd be nice to see you over it one day."

"No." Sherlock stated flatly, then felt badly about the complete refusal. "Maybe, let's just see how all of this goes tonight."

"Anything you need, Sherlock. We'll take it slow for you."

Sherlock blushes and opens his room, quickly hanging his jacket and coat on the door hangers as he offers to take Ciaran's as well. He takes a moment and toes off his shoes as well trying to relax the knot that is forming in his stomach.

"Shhh." Ciaran lightly touches his shoulders sending his hands gliding down Sherlock's arms before bringing them back up to his collar leaning into Sherlock's body. "I'm right here Sherlock. I have you. One thing at a time..."

Sherlock closed his eyes and just breathed, beginning a light meditative rhythm to relax his body. He could feel the warm breath playing on his collar before the supple lips met his neck. Ciaran made a light happy sound at the shudder that went through Sherlock's body.

"Responsive." Ciaran smiled against his skin. "Is it true then? I'm your first?"

"Yes."

"But this is just you and I, no ghosts? Just us."

Sherlock turned to look into Ciaran's eyes trying to find a way to convey his willingness. He could think of nothing except to kiss him once again, but less tentative, with more will behind it. The heat blossomed wonderfully at that point delicious and light licks warming his skin until he felt pink in his ears.

"Christ Ciaran..."

"And that is just a kiss...come here my little pirate."

"Sit beautiful. Please." Ciaran lead Sherlock over towards his bed. "Let me undress you."

Sherlock enjoyed the singular attention; being the focal point of scrutiny. He felt possessed and cared for all at once. This made him wonder if Ciaran was this way with all his previous lovers.  
Yet, in this space, none of that mattered. It was only them. Moving his hands into his hair he drew Ciaran closer breathing in the warmth of his skin luxuriating in the mapping of his lover.

"Lover." He allowed the weight of the word to let it tip out into the air surrounding them. "Please, Ciaran...please."

Sherlock felt hazy boundaries falling pleasantly as Ciaran moved over his body with his tongue and teeth; stopping to draw further pleasure from Sherlock when he found a particularly sensitive area working to please them both toward a more suggestive end. Soon, Sherlock lay naked and fuzzily aware that the constant barrage of stimulus had left him feeling slightly drugged.

"Soon treasure, soon."

He wrapped himself over Sherlock pressing them physically together restraining his body as Ciaran continued to lave attention at his neck clasping Sherlock's hands above his head before pinning him with his hips and tying his hands to the headboard. As he plaited open kisses and lover's bites down his arms he whispered sweetly. Only as the haze deepened did Sherlock realize that it was not only his passion making him heated and slightly obscured mentally, but that there was little that could be done for it.

"You might feel light, that's ok. You're safe with me." He continued to work his way down Sherlock's chest. "...gave you something that might help you not be so tense. You'll be fine in the morning."

As the edges began to fill in with darkness the last thing he remembered was Ciaran's beautiful smile as he took Sherlock into his mouth for the first time.

* * *

****It was very early morning, or very deep into the night, given your feelings on such things. Sherlock was now quietly asleep in his bed as Ciaran roamed the flat thinking. Coming across the skull he lifted it, feeling the weight decided it was real, and was placing it back as he saw the letter. Curious he picked up the unsealed envelope then pulled out the letter that had been inclosed. Ciaran dropped to his knees his eyes flying across the letter praying it was a joke otherwise, he might be a dead man come dawn.

"Fucking hell." He whispered into the room. "John's here?"

He stood slowly, refolded the letter, and threw it on top of the bookcase to his left hiding it from view. Ciaran moved with a purpose back to Sherlock's room, untied him, and swiftly dressed stuffing the dressing gowns silk tie in his front pocket for quick access. Sherlock had spoke about John's room being upstairs, so like a fool he went where his feet did not want to tread. When he opened the door the only thing that greeted him was the lingering smell of a very good scotch and a partially opened window.

He barely had time to register the cock of the gun now pointing toward the back of his head.

"You had better fucking love him mate, to do what you did tonight. It's never going to be forgiven do you understand?"

He swallowed as he answered, "Yes."

"Tomorrow, we are having breakfast. It will not be enjoyable. Sherlock will not be woke and told about me is that understood? We will see you both in the morning. After that I never want to see you near him again. You had better pray he remembers nothing of what you really did."

"I should like to add, Ciaran, that if you have injured my brother in any way permanently due to your sadism, there will not be a place that you could hide from us."

"Alright."

"See, there's a good lad. He'll play nice after all John."

"He fucking better. Now go back to him, lay the fuck down, and hold him while you pray this goes off without a hitch you rapist bastard and that I forgive you by daybreak. He was a virgin. I was going to ask him to marry me tonight."

"I genuinely liked him. It wasn't all for the mark you know, his money. He's very sweet actually."

"Think about what you have taken from us. How could you do it?"

"He's beautiful, famous, and wealthy; who wouldn't?"

"No. Not making it better. You need to go back down. Now."

As Cairan closed the door, he knew he would have to follow their lead in the morning. Heading back down to Sherlock was the easy part. He really had enjoyed the man's company, and he didn't think that he'd have a dead lover to deal with let alone a living relative. All it proved was that he was getting sloppy and that it was time to retire.


	9. Chapter 9

In the morning, Sherlock awoke to the smells of breakfast, and a lover beside him. He didn't remember much of last night which was unusual, but he had also slept very deep which was the same amount of unusual, so he chalked it up to the exquisite romp Ciaran and he much have shared. Cataloging, he was quite tender in a few areas and could feel bruising on his hips. Hmm, must have gotten rough. How very not-boring his morning was turning out to be.

"Ciar? Lover? Mrs. Hudson must be cooking for us this morning. Wake up."  
Sherlock smiled into the nuzzle he gave Ciaran's neck and was met with a lackadaisical hug. He let his fingers wander over the plane of the other man's chest before looking into his eyes with the wonder clearly on his face.

"And, mmm, and from the smell of it, a full english! Come on! Up we go! I am starved! Come feed me up and then lets fall back in bed! Or do you need to get back to your flat? I know you do not have your laptop with you."

With that, Sherlock went to bound out of the bed like a schoolboy, his heart racing gleefully in his chest. What actually occurred was a full stop and muffled agonizing wince.

"I'd take it a bit slower, little pirate. You were quite enthusiastic last night...not that I'm complaining."

"Mmm...yes. Enough to play a bit even I see. Good god my brain is two seconds behind today, the things you must have done to me to properly short out my thought processes!"

Gingerly dipping, he picked up a thin sleep shirt and pajama bottom from his bedside before slowly easing off the bed and into the ensuite to get cleaned up. Sherlock hope that things would get easier as their relationship progressed or there were going to have to be lines drawn; that he could feel.

"Shouldn't take long, then you can have a go, yes? Unless, you'd like to come with me?"

"Nah, I cleaned up last night. Even found the wrapped spare toothbrush. I'll be lazy until you get out...hurry though I might get cold."

"Go grab a cuppa and chat up my marvelous land lady then!" Sherlock glibly teased as he shut the door.

Once behind it he immediately turned on the shower.

He began cataloguing all the bruising and tender areas; looking at his wrists he frowned. This wasn't just rough. This, to anyone else, could be very damning actually. As he stepped into the hot stream he found himself turning up the heat a bit more to relax his back and gasped at the tenderness he found there as well. It felt like cloth burn.

_Damn. What in the hell had they gotten up to? Why couldn't he remember?_

Obviously he did remember some of it. Mostly soothing words and pressing touches, but nothing to warrant the particular way he felt he thought. As he lathered, he allowed his mind to wander and pick up all the thin tendrils to slowly tie them back together to make a more complete picture. When he could not place everything he began to worry just a bit, but almost dismissed it because Ciaran was still comfortably still in his bed that morning and what person would take advantage then have the gaul to stay afterwards?

_No. This had to be a one-off. He'd discuss it after breakfast when they were back alone._

Above the shower he could hear distinctly male voices in the kitchen, one of which was Mycroft, the other he could not place though. Must be Lestrade. It didn't sound as if Ciaran had gotten up yet so turning off the taps, he dried dressed before going back through his room to get the lazy-bones evicted out of the bed and food for them both as it seemed like they had much to talk over. He was toweling his hair as he opened the door to speak with him calling out to warn him of the eminent ousting.

"Ciaran?"

"He's out in the kitchen."

"Thank you, John. breakfast it is."

As Sherlock placed his hand on the doorknob, he twisted then stopped as the whole of the flat had gone instantly silent.

"Are you hurt, Sherlock?" Came the strangled question from the direction of his bed.

"No. I don't know. You're not real. You shouldn't be haunting us."

"Sherlock, I'm no ghost."

"Really now, how many times have we had these conversations John. Stop it please. Don't be so veracious just because I missed going to your grave last night. I'm trying can't you see?"

"Was he sweet with you? Doesn't look like it. Come here, let me look you over-"

"John! No." Sherlock hissed. "I am not going to allow a ghost to look over my body no matter how much it might sooth my nerves. God I miss you badly enough, alright?"

Opening the door, he left the room and headed toward the lovely breakfast in front of him.

"My. Pleasant morning. Cooking in celebration are we? Happy your little brother finally committed the deed?" He asked jovially.

"I was just getting acquainted with Ciaran here as a matter of fact." Side stepping the initial question. "Coffee this morning?"

"Yes please. Thank you for playing mother."

"Not at all, brother. How are you feeling this morning? Much abused?"

"Do you two always make light of rape?" John asked from the bedroom doorway.

"Not at all, My. Ciar was careful with me last night, weren't you?"

The click of the hammer silenced the room.

"I'd be very careful how you answered him right now if I were you, Ciar..." John stated with full malice. Not moving his eyes off of Ciaran he questioned Sherlock deeply concerned. "Why are you pointedly ignoring me Sherlock?"

"Really now, John you are not here. It is impossible."

"No Sherlock, " Ciaran answered, "John is here. That is him." He stayed very still as he looked directly at John. "They aren't making light."

"Of course we're not. Now go away please so I may enjoy my morning without guilt."

"Sherlock! Damn it to hell. I am here you idiot. In the bloody room holding a gun point blank at this conniving berk!"

Sherlock stood and moved slowly toward John taking his time and gauging all the information he refused to see. His John, back? Imposible. He was dreaming. As if his brother would make a celebratory breakfast? Well, that was possible knowing how long he had waited for his little brother to finally receive some sort of spark of inspiration.

"John?"

He held his hand out barely grazing John's jawline, being careful of the placement of the gun as it was still very much trained on Ciaran.

"Oh my...John?"

"Yes. Sherlock. I'm home."

Sherlock looked at him and shattered. John saw it in his eyes but within the same moment he saw the coldfire rage and did not even have time to holster his weapon before Sherlock had laid him out on the floor with a swift punch that connected to his left cheek.

"Fuck! Sherlock!"  
"No John! Ciaran gave me something to help me relax. It was nothing more than a valium and a small quantity of xo. It was alright once I understood the reasoning it has just taken me a while this morning to remember."

"No. Not possible..."

"John, it is entirely possible. More possible than you being alive. Which you are. Now, either sit and enjoy breakfast or get the absolute hell out of my face."

"For God damnit bloody fuck's sake Sherlock! Look at me a moment! Fuck!"

"Oh my god how I loved you, John. I've mourned you this entire time. Of course it would only make sense for you to rise from your proverbial grave the moment my honor was in question! I was shagged. I liked it. Ciaran liked it. Get of your blessed high horse you damned wank-on-wheels. There was a time not that long ago I was looking forward to you bedding me...loosing myself to you. But oh no, you had to chase skirts and only at the, what I thought was, damn it to hell you right bastard!"

Sherlock had been steadily walking him backwards into his room taking all of the possibility of personal space away. Slamming the door behind them he quickly knocked his wardrobe over effectively blocking both main exits of the room.

"You wanted privacy, John? Well now we have it!"

"Holy Christ."

"He's not going to help in this situation John! Speak your mind!"

He watched as John unloaded the cartridge from the chamber, put the safety on, and holstered his firearm. Then moving cautiously, he perched at the foot of Sherlock's bed looking up at him all the while.

"I had to...to stop him Sherlock. I'm active duty again. For chrissake your brother is my handler. We've dismantled one of the biggest crime syndicates on this side of the world over the last almost three years so that you would be safe. So I could come home to you...but I guess it's to late for all that isn't it?"

Sherlock sighed deeply and sat flush up against John raking his hands through his dark curls.

"I don't know John. I don't. I've just met Ciaran, and as petty as it sounds, I do like him. He is interesting...I still want you here if that is what you are asking. I have been lost without you, but I've changed too."

"Sure. I'd love to be back here. I still have things to tie up, but yesterday being my birthday...well I had hoped...doesn't matter. It's all fine. I'm sorry."

"Hoped what John?" Sherlock rested his head on John's warm shoulder. How he had missed just the solid comfort he could provide. Always the calm in the center of the eye; his blogger. His John.

"Well, I guess you didn't make it to my grave yesterday? I left you a gift."

"But it was your birthday...I don't understand..."

"Look, let's right the wardrobe, or at least push it out of the way, and go get breakfast yea? Let me meet your boyfriend since he's bound to be around...I- I'm so sorry Sherlock for assuming I would get back in time."

"In time?"

"In time for me to be the one who would unlock your heart."

John stood, leaned over Sherlock and pressed a lovingly chaste kiss to his mouth before righting himself and moving the wardrobe enough to exit via the ensuite; heading into the kitchen he grabbed a cuppa and some toast just like old times. He met Mycroft's eyes as he sat beside him allowing for the silent commiseration between them before addressing Ciaran.

"Go. Calm your boyfriend. If you hurt him I know at least 12 places your body will never be found if you are allowed to die. Got it?"

Ciaran left the room immediately to go speak with Sherlock.

"John?"

"Not here, My. Later, back at your place? I don't feel like being in office today, yea?"

"Of course."

Mycroft made a quick work of informing his secretary they would be working from his home today and to have the car round for them in twenty minutes.

"Taken care of. Now, really John, do you believe him?"

"Mycroft I don't know alright...I just don't know."

"Well let's enjoy shall we. Tuck in, it's not everyday I play chef."

* * *

Ciaran tentatively knocked on the entryway from the ensuite waiting for Sherlock to beckon him in.

"Look...I'm so sorry-"

"No, you're not."

"Wh- excuse me? I am too."

"Lies. Again. Please don't stoop to thinking that I believe you."

"Whatever are you on about?"

"Drugging me last night. I worked it out in the shower. Do not do that again, do you understand?"

"Yea I re-"

"Again, stop lying. It's tedious."

"Suppose so. Look, I'll just go alright."

"So it was just about your own sense of gratification last night? Nothing more? Were you acting the entire time?"

"Not the entire time no. I do like you, personally."

"Then why take advantage, Ciaran? Why?" Sherlock was trying to keep his voice desperately low. "Why when I would have given you the world if we got on well?"

"I collared you. Knew you were mourning. Got close-"

"Yes yes yes. Again boring. Answer the question."

"Because I didn't understand how much I really liked you, little pirate."

"I see."

"Well, yes. I am right here."

"Shut it please while i think a moment do not move."

Ciaran sat patiently tracing the thin cracks in the ceiling with his eyes.

"Stop it. Stop thinking. Can I trust you?"

"Trust me?"

"Well it is obvious that you would like to see me again, and I am not reluctant of the idea though I should be. Danger is my forte after all...no drugs ever again. Up until last night I had been sober for nine years or thereabouts. Understand?"

"I'm no good for you Sherlock..."

"Let me be the judge of that Ciaran, please?"


	10. Chapter 10

"Alright John." Mycroft placed his drink on the table. "Let's talk through this shall we?"

"There's nothing to talk through, is there?"

"My brother will come to his senses you know; he always does."

"I'm not so sure this time. I mean xo? Him? Not likely. I still think there is something going on..."

"Better than heroin is it not?" Mycroft grimaced. "And at least it was at home. Once."

"Well I guess the test will come tonight. You watching the gravesite still?"

"Of course. We will know as soon as he has received the first part of your little game."

John sighed heavily. After the last forty eight hours, he just was simply bone tired. He had thought he was being clever by setting up the small presents for Sherlock at their most significant spots, but now he was regretting it.

"Mycroft, do you think I'm doing the right thing? Leaving it all in place?"

"Well he is ever curious, my brother. Resourceful too. Let us see what he will do. On another note, Gregory has been pretty persistant about apologising today."

"Oh let him wallow, self-righteous wanker."

"As you wish, I am more than happy to oblige."

Mycroft stood and went to his desk. He hated to see John this way and was concerned. He had not been just hyperbolizing to Gregory last night; John was broken. Still was and he was worried it was irreparable. Everyone in the field needed one thing to tether them. Especially in the specific line of John had done. The deep reconnaissance could be very brutal to ones self if there was no touchstone and John still had one more left to finish.

There was a man by the name of Moran that was still loose and they knew he had been heading to London seven weeks ago. He just hoped they could locate him with swift accuracy for John's sake. That was if he wanted down time to collect himself, he could afford to do so. Mycroft was fairly certain discussion of retirement was now officially off the table due to this which worried him even more.

John had become extremely valuable to the crown for all of his services and unswerving loyalty. Mycroft was actually looking forward to giving him a knighthood sometime in the near future if he lived to receive it. In reality, he had yet to be resurrected through Lazarus, so if he passed in these next few weeks no one would even be aware.

"John, I never ask anything of you. But, this once, try to come back alive on the other side of this."

"Life is a persistent thing My..."

"Yes, as I am very well aware. What I mean is, while my brother may be infatuated for the moment...well, you have to know you have always had his heart."

"Well, as you have said, you have it on credible account, that it was resurrected fully when I died remember? Softer, kinder, Sherlock? The one I couldn't wait to get to know..."

"John-"

"No. It's alright. I'll be fine. I'm going to head up to the guest room for a kip."

* * *

John trudged up the stairs in Mycroft's posh home toward what had been designated his room, his feet heavy with grief. He did not have time to mourn, but if he did not now, he may never have the chance to. The next time may never exist again. Of course Sherlock would get his first clue sending him home. John had found the displaced letter and placed it back underneath that madcap skull that Sherlock loved dearly. Then, making sure the next was in his room Mycroft and he had gone back down and made breakfast.

So then it would be, if Sherlock continued from there, to Alfonso's, finally going to the new place John had just purchased for the two of them directly across the street from where they currently lived. It would be a concession. It had been abandoned before the bombing and certainly no one wanted it afterward, so all three floors were theirs. The ground could be for his practice, first floor for Sherlock's, and the top for living space if they do longer wanted to stay at Mrs. Hudson's. John had the feeling it would be nice to stay for a while yet there, but now, he may be living in the new residence by himself.

Well, no time for that now. Plenty later. He could stay a few nights here as things were sorted with all the things necessary for comfortability and living. He had even enlisted the help of Mycroft's interior design to give him the comfortable thrown together look without Sherlock or he having to lift a finger just agree or dismiss via email. That was sort of wonderful. The desks she had already found were perfect. It would be a lovely present for them both.

Even if he chose not to be in a relationship with John, he still had every intention of giving him the first floor for his office and laboratory. A proper one. That way he could work more safely and John would be more prepared if something went wrong with a proper office just one floor down.  
It could work, question was, would Sherlock want it?

_He's graveside. -M_

_TY- J_

_ETA B? -J_

_Yes. Enroute.-M_

_Fast. Don't like it. -J_

_Let us see. -M_

Sherlock already had the first clue. HOME.

John knew that was a double entendre, well tripple actually, but he knew Sherlock wouldn't catch that particular breadcrumb until after Angelo's. He knew it would not be more than an hour's worth, so he lounged in the large comfortable chair instead of a proper lie-down. So much had changed in such a small amount of time. It hurt him so, but if Sherlock could be alive and happy, in the long run that was all John had ever wanted. It was foolish for him to believe Sherlock would always be by his side after all. He might even never had been if John had died protecting him. Maybe him being involved with someone else who was safe was better for him.

_But Sherlock never liked safe before._

_Ciaran wasn't safe then._

No, that made zero sense. He was a writer for crissakes, sort of bohemian; moving around every so often to different climates or views. A poet longing for beauty or some such. Philosophical. Maybe that is what Sherlock saw, the romanticism of that way of living comfortably but free. And that was fine. jesus, he was acting as if they were engaged. He needed to ground himself. It was one date. One night...together. NOt months or even weeks or days. Once.

So this was jealousy, ta!  
**  
**_At B. -M_

_TY -J_

_Found. Full stop. Reading.-M_

_I feel like a voyer._  
_Just let me know when he leaves_  
_towards Lo's. -J_

_He's weeping John. -M_

_Bless.-J_

_Sitting in his chair. Thinking._  
_Might be awhile. Shower._  
_Calm yourself. I'll com you. -M_

_Will do. Thanks. -J_****

Heading to the large round tub, he threw the taps almost full on. Hot steam and the scent of sandalwood filled his room. He had become so accustomed to it while he was working, it became the one luxury he allowed himself. Personal scents were deadly, but he figured if he were a dead man walking he was going to have his one luxury while gone from his love. He wondered if Sherlock had even picked up on it yet. Made him smile to think about Sherlock working out how long John had been wrapping himself in the scent. His one little vanity. How he came across it. Why, even now it calmed him.

"John?"

"Yes My?"

"He's terribly upset."

"Let him work through it. Does he have the next yet?"  
"No, he still hasn't gone upstairs. He's texted me twice."

"Alright. Tell him it has to be solved."

"Already have, I'll let you know when he ascends the stairs then."

"Thanks My. For everything."

"Never a problem John. Never will be. Relax."

"Will do."

John sank deeper into the tub, thinking of the letters he had left almost three years ago. How up until last week Sherlock would sometimes pull out the tiny iPod clipping it to his collar before beginning to play for hours to John's voice. Sometimes he'd play along with him playing primary to the secondary parts John had laid lovingly down with his viola. Sherlock had never commented on John rebuilding his tensile strength and his shoulders stamina. If he noticed the welts on his fingers, he never mentioned them.

It was the little clues he must have been replaying in in head that had made him cry. Knowing that John knew weeks in advance that he would lay his life down for him. That he was preparing any tangible gifts he could to leave Sherlock when he could no longer be there. All during the trial he had lovingly spoken in quiet tones reading all of Sherlock's favorites and a few of his own. Then when those ran out some of his children's book he had started on. He was able to complete it just before, which gave him some small peace.****

_Sentiment, Watson._

Now, Sherlock was about to receive the only bound copy. But how lovely knowing he would have it on his shelf, a small part of John if they weren't. Enough of that for now.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"He's heading up."

"Understood."

"Sybil said the chairs and table were put per your request. Everything is redy for the two of you."

"Little good that will do now."

"Hope, John."

"I have been, believe me."

Alright, time to move. He deftly shaved then washed and rinsed in double time. The dark blue suit already laid out for him with the soft brick red cardigan that Sherlock had gifted him their first Christmas, light blue shirt with no tie. Not today. Not after what had happened to Sherlock last night consensual or not. He wanted nothing but the two of them. No reminders of last night or the last three years. Just them. He would dress for him, to catch his eye; remind him.

John found himself silently praying it would work.


	11. Chapter 11

_Why? -S_

_Why what_  
_brother dear. -M_

_Why now? -S_

_Because he finally can. -M_

Sherlock red the letter again. He knew he was openly weeping but couldn't be found to care. John, his consistent loyal blogger had loved him desperately. He had know without question after the trial. He noticed the pinking of his fingertips, had wanted to sooth them. Caress them with his lips. Before that had been the set of John's body. He had begun running again in the early mornings, using the bar in the attic for inverted situps, watching his intake with more care. All the little signs that things were changing. Sherlock had no clue how drastic the change would be.

John died.

For him.

For them.

Then he left his life and became what he must be. Ever the soldier, ever loyal and dogmatic, he took it upon himself to fix-it right yet again for his detective. This time he did invade alone the only things with him his sheer force of will and his skills with hand to hand and weaponry. That alone was hardly ever enough though, Sherlock knew it. He could hear it in the tone of the letter he had just re-read. John had kept his focus for the sole purpose to come home to Sherlock.

HOME

That was the first letter. He knew it meant Baker, but it also meant them. Their comfort. Their friendship and care of one another. Now this, his admission of what he knew he was possibly sacrificing. Even now there was one last obstacle, yet he came home. To care for Sherlock, love him possibly, if he would allow.

Anger and regret choked him. He thought he would vomit, but his throat was so very closed as it held his heart that wanted to spill everything in sacrifice to take the last twenty one hours back. He had betrayed them, himself, his faith in the one man he knew was steady and bright in his life. Even in death he had watched over him, protecting him, reading to him, playing for and with him.

"Christ please..."

_Lavender - M_

_What is? -S_

_Go brother, you know already. - M_

Sherlock sat gathering himself placing the second letter in his breast pocket to keep company with the first as he ascended the seventeen stars to John's floor. Opening his room he found, perfectly placed, a smallish box on the made bed. The room no longer held the feeling of John, not really, but he noticed the warmth nonetheless.

He sat on the edge of the bed unwrapping the box moving the tissue to uncover the leather bound book. It was no bigger in his hand in size, but it was at least ninety pages. Embossed in gold were the title and author. John's children's book. Opening it he read the dedication.

_**To Violet Lavender.**_  
_**Our sweetest dream.**_

_**Love Always~**_  
_**One who wishes you were**_

_Oh...John..._

_Mycroft. Where is he? -S_  
_Please.-S_

_Brother, you must find your way home. -M_

_I am home. -S_

_Are you?_  
_Follow the path_  
_before you. -M_  
_You do know where to go next? -M_

_Obvious. -S_

_Then go. Please._  
_For the both of you. -M_

With that he placed the book in his great coat's interior pocket and fled down the stairs to grab the first cab he could.

* * *

Walking into Angelo's felt disjointed. He had had delivery several times since the Incident, but had only dined there twice since. Last night would have only been the third time he had set foot into his friend's little restaurant. In the afternoon light, it looked no different than it had years ago really. It would be once night approached that he would begin to feel the familiar sting. Yet, it need not happen anymore as John was once again in London, once again alive. Leaving tiny presents and soft welcomes to reintroduce himself to Sherlock.

It was true they were two different people, even though at the core they were still the same. The same magnetism, soul-searing gravity was still enlisted in their very breaths. It had been so hard that morning having John in his room on his bed. If he weren't so angry or ashamed he might have had John right there all praises and tears. Oh, how the tide had changed internally for him. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to finally accept another in his life as he had once accepted John. How selfishly he had coveted John then though only thinking how wonderful the last thing to see would be John's eyes or feel his arms around him as he blinked from this existence.

How damnable it was to him now, to realize he never saw John's side? How John would feel doing those things. Sherlock knew very well now the weight of that grief.

"Christ, John. Even then you knew. Trying to tell me...I am an idiot."

Sherlock wildly looked for the short heavy-set man that had called them friend. Even going so far as to accept a package for Sherlock knowing it was something special for him, a present even though it had been John's day.

"Antonio! My package please!"

"Alright Sherlock, alright. Just a moment. Sit, please."

He could scarcely sit, but did as he was told not knowing if he could stay standing the way his mind was whirling. John had set him up a fine puzzle. A chase, a child's game. Hide and seek. Sherlock swore he would seek until the ends of the earth to find him now. How had he ever forgot how wonderful John could be. Always surprising him with the most mundane things or trivia to keep him busy grousing about how inane it was the entire time. Patient John listening and enjoying the frivolity. Alfonso came back around the counter and handed him another envelope.

"Good luck, Sherlock. Be happy." He wrapped Sherlock briefly in a hug before heading off to tend to the other customers. Opening it immediately he was presented with a key with a fob attached that had been engraved.

**_And when you loved, you were my other husband..._**  
**_One Hero died defiled, but I do live..._**

Oh, but where! Where was he! This was not the key for Baker. This was new. Well no, as old as Baker, same style, but new as in new to him...them. Where did it belong? Baker. Home.

_One hero died..._

_John, you marvelous fool!_

Sherlock ran the short distance and grabbed the first cab he could.

"222 Baker Street. Please hurry."


	12. Chapter 12

The cab stopped, Sherlock alighted throwing the fare at the cabbie smiling with trepidation. There, under the knocker, another small envelope. John was killing him willfully in increments, knowingly no less. What Sherlock would not do though, go all night madcap through the underside of London if he had too, but it didn't matter now. No, now was only about this.****

**_How sweetly you do minister to love,_****  
****_That know love's grief by his complexion!_****  
****_But lest my liking might too sudden seem,_****  
****_I would have salved it with a longer treatise._******

**_What need the bridge much broader than the flood?_****  
****_The fairest grant is the necessity._****  
****_Look what will serve is fit. 'Tis once, thou lovest,_****  
****_And I will fit thee with the remedy._******

**_Always Love. All ways. Come in..._******

Sherlock tried the key, it fit.

"John!" Sherlock called as he opened the door to the foyer. "John?"

He took the stairs two at a time looking around the first floor there was no sign of him at all. Sherlock began to worry, cold sweat crept into life. John was here. He knew it. He took the next set up to the second floor at the same pace practically hyperventilating in a mix of worry and anticipation.

"John? Please. John?"

He entered the main living space and was greeted with a small cheerful fire, two very odds and ends beautifully old chairs and one small circular table between them. He could see a calf encased in turquoise under the deep blue trouser and warm brown bespoke leather shoe. A small box rested on the table begging to be opened. John had not moved.

"John? Please answer me...Please."

Coming around, he had never seen such a beautiful sight. John had obviously dozed off waiting for him. Taking off his gloves, coat, and scarf he laid them in his chair before crouching to gently touch John's face in order to wake him.

"I wouldn't do that, little pirate..."

Spurred into action, Sherlock darted to standing in an instant.

"Ciar-"

"Why? Cairan? I'm sorry Cairan. We've always loved each other you see..."

"Who are you?"

"Oh I'm who I say I am. It's just not my only name...or profession. Kindly take your jacket off and come towards me please. Slowly. I promise you no harm to him if you come now."

How could Sherlock deny the request.

"You drugged him?"

"Yes, observant. He will wake in about an hour, not a scratch. It's not very sportsman-like to take out the competition while there back is turned so to speak."

"Oh, I've got it. John. Now come along, Holmes. Let's get you going."

* * *

John's head felt like it was going to implode. His vision was all wrong as well. Taking a minute he tried to come round, but was having an extremely difficult time. As his eyes adjusted, he recognised Sherlock's things.

No Sherlock.

Oh, no no no...this would not happen. Fuck.

"Mycroft?"

"John? What's wrong?"

"Sherlock. He isn't here. Something's wrong. I was drugged I believe. We have a leak somewhere...or someone very good at what they are doing."

"Nothing on the footage John. You sure he is not there? I'll be right over."

John rang off placing his mobile back into his pocket before reaching for his gun. Still in his holster. Good. Doing a rapid once over, it looked untouched. Taking the safety off he slowly cleared the floor he was on.

Nothing.

Descending the stairs he hugged the walls until he reached the door. Opening it, he cleared fairly easy as there were no walls up only supportive bones. Remnants of the past becoming new again. Damn.

"John?" Mycroft called to him.

"Here. Top and first floor clear, how about you?"

"Down here as well. Bloody well...calling it in."

"I think it's Moran, My." He stated as he came down to ground level. "Fuck!"

"Well I am assuming no sign of struggle, so we know he left here alive. That's solidly on the good side of our scales."

"Yes, but we have no idea where he is or who...well I think I know the who...still not enough!"

"He was happy John..."

"Damn it Mycroft. Not now. No. Can't; have to concentrate."

"As you wish. Let's go back up, the team will be here shortly to go over everything."

* * *

Seven hours passed.

Seven.

No ransom.

This was devolving into a worst-case, very not good for anyone in the premises. John was ragged. At least his vitals were ok, no known poisons or anything else in his system. They couldn't even trace what he had been given. That was even more problematic. It was probably close to the same thing...wait...

"Mycroft...Cairan."

"Possible. I'm contacting Greg." Mycroft looked hardened and fierce. "He owes us everything if you are right. He'll pay if necessary."

"Let's not skin him yet, it won't help Sherlock."

"Agreed."

John slumped into the chair with his coffee. Anger did not even begin to describe the seething taking place in his midsection.

"Leave it to him to get involved with someone dangerous. I had already worked through that part you know. I haven't worked out why he lied about it. He was definitely taken advantage of by that prick."

"There are many reasons why he might have chosen to keep that particular bit of information to himself. He most likely, knowing my brother, was unwilling to admit the situation happened without his express consent. It is obvious that he was comfortable with-"

"Alright, Mycroft. Enough."

"Sorry, John. It is easy in moments like these to get 'wrapped-up' in the unraveling of the scheme taking place. Before you chastise me, yes, he may be my brother, but I want him home. My comfort is secondary to finding him. If we must pick apart their encounter to find the identity of Ciaran, so be it."

"I don't think that will be necessary. I want to believe he has a part in this because then I will be able to kill him without any reparations, but I'm still heavily leaning towards Moran. Taking mine for his so to speak."

"What if they were one in the same?"

"It could be feasible. In our line, we do assume many identities, but then how in the hell was Greg involved? He said he had known Ciaran for a long time."

"I have. Ever since he were born in fact." Gregory disjointedly walked up the last stair and headed toward the two me. "I'm so sorry. Any word?"

"Nice of you to join us Greg."

"Please, John, I had no idea. I'm...I...There aren't words to even cover this."

"No, there aren't. Now please tell us what the hell you mean by you've known him his whole life?"


	13. Chapter 13

"Thou wilt be like a lover presently and tire the hearer with a book of words..."

When the fist connected with his ribs his body screamed.

_Two then. Definitely broken._

"Stop with the prose, Sherlock. We are beyond that aren't we? Shall I tell you then, treasure, how wonderful it felt to take your pliant body. You mewling incoherent at my touch? Are those the words you wish to hear?"

"If thou doest love fair Hero, was 't not to this end...that thou began'st to twist...so fine a...a story?"

"You are so twisted. Reciting the inbetweens to Much Ado. I do suppose it is ironic in a way. I had my way with no regard, and now you will die Hero's death, but permanently. There will be no happy meet at the alter;

'Oh, what authority and show of truth can cunning sin cover itself withal! Comes not that blood as modest evidence to witness simple virtue? Would you not swear, all you that see_ his_, that he were_ innocent_ by these exterior shows? But he is none. He knows the heat of a luxurious bed. His blush is guiltiness, not modesty.'

I think the bard has the right of it, don't you? You've known the bed physically, but you do not remember the act. How fitting. I've taken and you, John, neither off you can ever have that back. It will haunt him until his last breath, I promise you."

Sherlock looked up his eyes burnt with the blackness consuming him. What he wouldn't give to happily dismember Moran slowly. He had been such a fool. He only loved John, he knew that. He should have been patient. Now, it was true, he was a whore. Wanton, unfaithful. He had set his heart's course straight anchored in the knowledge that John and he would have had time. Why did he even try to reach out?

_Because you promised John you would not close yourself away._

Sherlock smiled maniacally through the pain. Well, if he were to die, he'd do so on his terms. John will know he fought for them in the end. Holding the love he had for John as his strength, he began the ending of himself.

"They know that do accuse me. I know none. If I know more of any man alive Than that which maiden modesty doth warrant, Let all my sins lack mercy!"

"Oh, you want reminding then, treasure? This will be fine...all you had to do was ask for a final shag you know cock-tease. At least this time you'll be awake and I'll be able to hear your screams instead of heavily drugged sighs."

Moran turned on him yet again tightening the zip tie then releasing the belt that currently held his hands whipping it back before folding it and slapping Sherlock on the face. A very bright welt bloomed instantly.

"Pity. It is beautiful, but you're skin didn't break. I'll have to try harder I suppose."

He kicked the back of the chair toppling Sherlock to the ground. Predator to prey, no more games, nothing hidden. Sherlock knew he would pass out fairly quickly if this kept up but he also knew that Moran would keep working him torturing him slowly unless he forced his hand.

"I promise, when I finish, they'll not be able to recognise anything but that beautiful face, treasure."

Moran moved with purpose, flipping Sherlock onto his back even as he screamed due to the unholy stretch on his shoulders and arms, yanking the stay then ripping his trousers and pants off at once before flipping him back flat to the floor once again.

"So, I wonder which name you will cry? Who should I be to you, little pirate?" Moran caressed the much abused cheek. "Should I be the thoughtful lover? Fuck you until you can't take any more then ruin that pretty cock? Make you cum, cry release, betraying your will?"

Sherlock was shuddering beneath him, and there was something so very wonderful in this. Never had Moran ever thought that his luck would pan as marvelous as it had. As he raised the belt again moving it down Sherlock's exposed skin, he centered himself before raising it and cracking it in a short sweet kiss that barely made contact.

Sherlock's wail was the sweetest thing he thought he had ever heard.

* * *

"Jesus! Please tell me why the holy Christ fucking apostles and saints you thought this was ever a _good_ idea?"

"John! Please! Calm yourself. Now! I will remove you if I have to. We all are worried here."

"We have to get to him! God knows what he's going through or if he is even any semblance of alive Mycroft. For fuck's sake!"

"We have to have intel. We are not going in blind. Five minutes will do nothing if he has already passed from us John. If he is still with us, we need to be prepared to get him medically and tactically. Five minutes, prepare yourself doctor."

"Gregory!" Mycroft roared toward the D.I. "You suit up, now! You and I are going in with the secondary in two!"

"On it. John, we'll get to him. I swear."

"You bloody well better, Greg. Come back alive so I can give you a good strop, yea."

John went toward the back of the warehouse, steeling himself for the worst. It looked like it was just Moran and Sherlock, but that meant almost nothing tactically if the house was wired. Everyone was pointedly aware of what exactly was at stake with this one.

"Mary, get the heavy triage kit ready now. You'll be here co-ordinating. Pic's...everything."

"Small go's ready for Team One and Two."

"Mycroft, get your arse over here or have one of your's come get these!"

"On it! Jones! Kit up now!"

John took a chair and folded for a moment allowing the adrenalin to flood his system in as controlled a manner as possible. The tremor was barely visible.

"John," James placed his hand on John's shoulder. "We've gotten out of worse."

"Yea. Well you're a right arse. Fuck off and go get him for me. I'll be right behind in four."

"Right then. On the other side?"


	14. Chapter 14

"Oh you are so very sweet, treasure. Isn't that what your John would say? Encourage you?"

Moran pushed in deeper.

"Relax, you're doing wonderfully. Such a good pliant lover. You can do it."

His mirthless laugh echoed in the empty room.

"That's it, take me. You know you want to be ready for a good ride when John comes in don't you? You'll be stretched just right, maybe a bit too much, but I'm sure he won't mind..."

Moran rotated as he inserted a third finger not giving a care that the stripe of semen from his first wank was starting to become more sticky than lubricating for them.

"See I was nice, gave you a bit of lube...albeit my cum. Do you like it? Me working it into you? Your body's absorbing it greedily you know. Soon they'll be none left then whatever will we do, treasure?"

Sherlock refused to speak. He didn't care about any other utterance that came out of him, he just refused to engage in begging or pleading. No good would come of it. This felt like a race to the end. Being pushed past limits he never should have been aware that he had.

"No, I don't think John will mind at all..."

_This is not John. Therefore it is nothing but transport._

"...I'm going to fuck you so nicely you'll be absolutely ruined."

* * *

"We've got visual. Definite. Two signatures."

John ran over to the com to be able to visually account for himself that Sherlock was still alive. Mycroft stood directly in front of him stopping him, making him lose his momentum.

"No, John. I've seen it. He's alive. It's a good mark. We've got them."

"Let. me. by. Mycroft."

"No. We'll get to him shortly. Then you can do whatever you wish to Moran. I promise you this."

"Take him into custody. Sherlock will need me for now."

"Understood...and yes I do believe you are right. So sorry, John."

"James, Team One, go. God's speed."

"Soon. Then you can care for him, alright." Mycroft had turned back to John. "See you shortly."

"God's speed, Mycroft."

Both point teams were placed and ready to converge as John watched their careful progress he noticed the flash of color on the other screen. There was only one bright signature left. The chatter was deafening in his ear. Shots fired. Questioning if it was misfire or taking fire. It was too much for him.

All he saw was dark as he left his position to reach Sherlock before he took his last breath.

* * *

Sherlock had been able to go into a quiet place for the beginning, but Moran made damn well sure that would have all his attention instead on his personal brand of dismantlement. Piece by piece, to be stripped bare one painful layer at a time. He had tried reciting their favorite prose then moved to the most recent additions of today, all in John's voice.

He knew he had to survive, and have the tenacity to come through the other side of this as whole as possible. Sherlock began taking stock of all of the damage to keep his mind running just above the base torture trying desperately to hold to life.

"Oh, that won't do. Not at all. Forgetting about all of this, little pirate, no I'm sorry, that is just not allowed."

Moran flipped him onto his back yanking as he shoved the barrel of his throw-away Sig deep within Sherlock, the cold metal tearing the delicate interior of his body.

"This will keep you aware won't it, pet? Isn't it wonderful, being properly fucked with the implement you used to end Moriarty's life? I think it's quite _fitting_..."

The hard slap of the pavement was just enough to stress the cheaply made zip-tie that were binding his wrists. Now if he could just get enough space between them...

"...that Jim's between us once again. Don't you?" He began retracting the gun unmercifully slow as he worked Sherlock's half-flaccid penis with his other hand. "Oh, you will get hard for me, you will cum, and then you'll be worked in two, treasure, I promise."

Sherlock knew if he didn't get a reaction soon from Moran, he would die by his hands. Something seethed within him. His anger overriding everything else; this was the end for good or ill.

"That's...not Jim..." Sherlock spat out as he pushed trying to forcefully expel the weapon. "and you're...not_ John_!"

"You little cunt! You just can't play nice, can you?"

"Who said...we were? You can't...have me. _Ever_. Even drugged...you couldn't get...erect-"

As the pistol hit Sherlock's face he stressed the thin tie praying to get control of the weapon trying desperately to wrest it from Moran. Sherlock trapped the assassin's wrist snapping it, ignoring his own abused limbs dragging him just enough for Moran to lose his footing.

The last thing he saw was the flash that lit the room before the searing heat blossomed just below his ribs.

* * *

John was going to kill Moran with his bare hands.

_Immediately._

Not giving a single fuck to dismembering him tearing into his flesh and ripping him to pieces. That would still be too good for him. John found himself wishing desperately for a way to revive him over and over as the sinew snapped from Moran's bones. He prayed he would be able to catch him as he fled the atrocious scene John was sure he left behind for them to find; that he got to Moran first.

All that could wait though, he had to focus. Get to Sherlock.

Now.

_Sherlock had to live._

"Subject is not moving. Target still in room. Advise."

"Do not fucking sneeze on him, do you understand James."

"Understood John."

"Sniper, stand down. Hold position. Medic incoming."

_Sherlock, hold on love. Please. For us..._

Sprinting up bypassing James' team on the landing he rounded the corner into the room first unbelieving the sight before him.

"Sh-Sherlock...oh god...Sherlock...please...put the gun down love."

"John!" Sherlock placed the weapon on the floor as he lost the tenuous balance he had procured on his knees watching his world tilt in slow motion. "I think...I need a shock...can't..."

"Sherlock..." John closed the distance, catching Sherlock before his head impacted with the bare floor, cradling it in his sure hands. As he took a breath, John sent up a silent prayer that Sherlock still breathed the same air as him. Such a small but wonderfully intimate act. Sharing the same space the same moment. Knowing they will still be able to share so many more. "Oh god love, it's alright. I have you."

He toggled the mic on his neck to give the all clear.

"Team Two, I have him. Team One is posted outside the room. Send mine up will you? We'll need an assistance..."


	15. Chapter 15

"Sherlock? Sherlock. You have to stay with me if you can, alright?" John eases him slowly back down flat on the floor using his jacket as a buffer against the cold. "Sherlock, you've been shot, but it's going to be alright. I have you."

The words coming out of John's mouth wee intelligent, Sherlock knew that much. Why they sounded like gibberish? He had to place that as shock. John must need him to respond.

"I'm here."

"Good. Good Sherlock. We're getting you set up for transport, yea. I'm going with you. I'm not leaving your side, do you understand?"

John was looking at him from an odd angle and not making eye contact. He was doing something with his body, Sherlock knew that much, but that was the end of it. He felt very cold and thought he was wet, but couldn't be bothered.

"Thank you..."

"No, Sherlock, no. You have to stay with me a bit, alright? I'm stabilizing you now..." John looked up and away yelling at someone about controlling the bleed and increments of time.

"John, don't let me leave you..."

"Not love..."

* * *

Four hours 26 minutes and 12 seconds later John emerged from the hell that had transpired.

They had gotten all the fragments, and as far as these things go, they went fairly well. Thank god Sherlock had been hit where he was John still was in awe of how miraculous it really was. All in all, Sherlock should heal nicely given a few weeks and physio. He himself, looked like a warzone. John had rapidly changed enroute to the hospital so much of his upper torso still had the marks of the initial trauma. He would be bothered to change it later, not now. Now he needed to speak to Mycroft.

Immediately.

The two men stood up as John came through the doors anxious of the hopefully good word from the doctor. John slumped into one of the hard plastic chairs before curling resting his elbows on his knees.

"Yes, he's fine. It's a bloody miracle My. He'll be ok."

"Thank you John..."

"He'll be ok, but that is not the least of our worries...He...was badly abused. I...we've treated him for that as well."

"How-"

"No permanent damage that could be foreseen. Which is good. He'll have a few very interesting scars. Had this been any other time or way, I am sure the irony would not be lost on him that we carry similar scars now."

"John how badly injured?"

"Damn it My! Bad enough alright? You really want to know, go procure his chart. I...I just need a minute...as his friend."

"Understood. Gregory, could you go ask Anthea to get it for us please? And something hot for all of us?"

"Yea, alright. I'll go. But I'll be back. I still need answers as well."

John buried his fingers in his hair and sobbed. He was not even close to being any semblance of ashamed. Moran had taken so much from them today. Possibly their relationship. He knew Sherlock and he would always be close, but he would not ask anything else.

"I can't Mycroft. He...he won't want...and it'll all be fine. I just...I'm sorry."

"John, you saved my brother. Myself, so many others. There is no shame in what you are feeling. Grief is normal. He's still here with us isn't he?"

"Yes, he is. Mycroft, that wasn't one of ours that hit him."

"What on earth? Not possible."

"But yet true. You need to check Moran, but he has two holes instead of one...there was the possibility of more bleed out with him, so I didn't think twice at the amount. Ask Mary, or get his records from here once he's out of surgery."  
"Could we go see him soon?"

"Yes. After post-op. I have to get back in there. Please post someone as well at both rooms. Looks like we still have someone out there."

* * *

"Daylight?"

John awoke to the word. His hand was finally being held back in long steady fingers.

"Yes, Sherlock. It's daytime so the sun would be out."

"You are a right-arse Jo-"

He stood, which stopped Sherlock's words halting whatever was going to be said.

"You almost died Sherlock. It's my fault. I should have been more careful. Got Moran before coming home to you. So very, very sorry."

"Water?" Sherlock asked quiet and reserved. "Please."

"Of course." John watched Sherlock very close. He wanted to make certain he felt comfortable and, if possible, safe. "Alright?"

"Better. John, please, you're not responsible. It was my folly as well."

"He's still alive. For now. There...there was a sniper. Not our own."

Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling the weight of ennui settle into his bones. He didn't know what to say or to do to assuage either of their hearts.

_Unless..._

"I love you John. Thank you."

"Cor, Sherlock!" The tears were plain on John's face with some form of a grim smile on his countenance. "I didn't know if I would ever hear...huh."

He sat on the bed as if the air had evacuated the room, the light playing within his eyes showing off the brilliant blue they had the possibility of being. Sherlock thought it was one of the most loving things he had ever seen. The way gravity shifted in that moment, time bending to their will, depths of luminescence just waiting to immerse them.

"I love you, too..." John shifted so that he could see Sherlock moe fully. "May I...well...I don't want to..."

"John please." Sherlock tried to memorise every aspect of being as it all unfurled. He was so damned nervous. Thoughts of Cir...no he would not allow it. This was theirs; only his and John's. He had waited so very long and they both had been too careful before. That time no longer existed. It was only here. Only now. "Just kiss me, please...I feel as if I'm going to die."

"No, Sherlock," John half-giggled softly, "That's just the weight of us...this. Anticipation."

John very gingerly took Sherlock's mouth in a light as air chaste kiss, wanting to caress and coax. Never taking, not for a long while yet, and that would be just fine.


	16. Chapter 16

"And how many people exactly did _you_ fuck in my absence John? From the looks of it you were no grieving widow."

At this moment John wanted nothing more than to flay James alive. He knew when to keep his mouth shut, why the hell had he done this? He knew, well and good, that him talking to Sherlock would help nothing. Did he doubt Sherlock's abilities? Well, he learned rather quickly then. That was not going to be a bridge he was willing to save at the moment. Served him right.

"Sherlock!" John tried to quiet himself. "I had to have a cover. It happens."

"No John, sex does not 'just happen'...what did you do? Slip naked and hard from wanting me and accidentally wind up in him? And you two just happened to be sharing the same shower?"

"It's not that simple-"

"Yes. It is."

"Look, Sherlock, please. This is not the time to discuss this. You're pushing your heart rate through the roof. You've got to calm down."

"No, John I most certainly will not calm down! Yesterday you were all bent because I had relations with someone and this morning I found out you were with no less than three while you were away! If that's not pot calling kettle I've never seen the day! Now, you're simpering over my loss and abuse like I'm a wilting flower. Like it was yours to have to begin with, like it's your issue to have to live with-"

John pushed his body off the doorframe where he had been calmly giving Sherlock distance as to not feel as a threat, but now it was time for serious measures it seemed. He reached out to take Sherlock's pulse and he reflexively pulled back from John's touch.

"Yes, it is mine to live with Sherlock. I'm your friend...always will be. Even if you...look I can't even take your pulse without you jumping. Not even I feel safe? You must calm down. Now."

"I'll check myself out first. Mycroft will have someone take me to his home to convalesce, if it is a concern for safety that you have. You can stay at Baker or your new flat, either way I obviously no longer have a say!"

"No Sherlock, you're not going anywhere." John became deadly serious. "You need to stay still and calm down. Abdominal wounds are always tricky and you were extremely lucky. If I have to I'll sedate and strap you down-"

"No! You will not!" Sherlock pales as a small shiver runs through his body. "No, it's alright. I'll stop. Just leave, please, John."

"You do realize you are still under my care even if you are transported to Mycroft's. It is safer for you for the next few days here at the hospital in case of infection or other complications. Then, if you wish I can arrange for you to come to our...to the new flat or to Mycroft's. I'll leave that up to you."

John checked over Sherlock's wounds, then satisfied, left leaving the nurse to change his IV's and finish the routine minutiae to be cataloged for Sherlock's chart and to be placed on the whiteboard by the window. He knew that the fallout was going to come. He knew it would be filled with some of the roughest terrain either of them had ever traversed, but he was still furious with James. Damn him for fueling any type of wedge or anger that could now be directed at John instead of facing what happened head on.

How were they supposed to come back from this?

"John?" A quiet voice jostled him out of his thoughts. "John, are you alright?"

"Mary? Oh, yes. Quite...I've got the man that I love in convalescence that I just hours ago was wrist deep saving in surgery who also has acute physical and emotional trauma on top. I'm just grand, Mary."

The slap was swift and mostly painless, the shock hurt worse than the execution.

"And you had better be in massive emotional duress as well to even think to speak to me this way. Don't you think I know? I was right there with you John stabilizing him..."

"I'm...I'm sorry. Things are not good at the moment."

"Well it's a good thing I'm your relief then. Go home, John. Let him be for a moment. You need to go sort yourself out if you're going to be good for anybody...doctors orders now. Off you go."

* * *

"So, how's the patient Mary. Think he'll see me? Calmed down enough to not completely bite my head off?"

James came around the pillar, hands in his pockets. He had hoped to bring coffee to soften the situation, but it was completely unacceptable, so cheekily he had decided to offer up himself. Mary was quite stunning after all and they had been in quite an intense situation...

"I don't know James...haven't you damaged enough?"

"Wasn't meant that way, promise. Want to go out when your shift is over? My place? Something over-easy maybe?"

James came in close and moved around her teasingly pulling a stray lock of Mary's hair before leaning on the counter.

"Toss-off James!" The laughter was bright. "Go see him, but be kind. Fix it if you can..."

"Will do. See you at dawn, Nightingale..."

James walked up to the partially open door peering in to see if Sherlock was awake. The consulting detective looked very wane and translucently pale. For a GSW he'd seen worse, but this was still different, one of their own's in direct harm in London, had been unheard of ages. Especially one that had training but Sherlock had never been ordinary, James knew that inbetween what he had gleaned from Mycroft and John. John even thought him quite exceptional, in all areas.

He moved into the room and took up residence in the lone chair before speaking.

"Sherlock. Care to discuss what is going on? Let me fill in the gaps you are unaware of? Jealousy suits no one."

"I believe the proper response in this situation, Mr. Bond, would be toss off. What was between John and I apparently was not as serious as I had thought, is all."

"Sherlock, he was deadman-walking. We had both needed a cover for our respective ventures-"

Sherlock tried to shift but was left uncomfortable. "I am sure that it worked out nicely for the two of you? I'm sure John was very happy to accommodate you, sir."

"The devil harle your soul, Sherlock. You best listen to me lad," James slipped comfortably into himself for the long talk. He could drop pretenses, if only for the moment, Sherlock had already deduced his birthright so there was no reason to deny it within his voice. "John is a good man, he has never had an ill intention were you concerned. He is in love with you, you clever, yet ignorant fool."

"Really? And how are you privy to this, James? Refused to whisper sweet nothings into your ear as you copped off? Did it hurt to hear someone else's name in the place of yours in forgotten ecstasy? Bruise the ego a bit?"

"As a matter of facts, yes it did."

The room fell as silent as a mausoleum.

"Say that again, James." Sherlock had nothing but malice lacing his tones. "Say it!"

"All of it, Sherlock. God, your doctor, he is a sight to behold isn't he? It is true that we were both undercover after different marks. It is also true that we wound up coupling for the soiree, and then having a different sort of coupling afterward. It was nothing but adrenaline. John, he is a right beast, let me tell you. He cried your name Sherlock. Yours. Talk about a blow to ego...he felt horrid and felt the need to explain, being the type of man that he is. Simply, he loves you Sherlock Holmes. Forgive him all. We live such short lives in such misery. Take hold of his brightness and let it guide you, yea?"

With that, James rose out of the horrid hospital chair, and without a look back, left Sherlock already deep in thought.


	17. Chapter 17

Three weeks had past.

_Jesus, Mary, and Joseph._

John found himself in his ensuite at 222 Baker, genuinely miserable as the hot water sluiced over his form. Sherlock, was indeed staying here, but one floor down in his office most of the time. Well, when John allowed. Sherlock was still pushing for independence, but the git had gone and pulled some incredibly stupid stunt and almost, almost, re-injured himself.

_Buggering fuckall..._

Oh, and John's mouth, _mentally_ he rephrased internally, as well as temperament, were only heading in darker directions for a multitude of reasons. The survivor's guilt, if it could be called that, was gnawing at him as well. Oh, god, how he wanted Sherlock. Wanted him_ right_ here, _right_ now, against _that_ fucking wall begging, John's name on his perfectly debauched lips. Love bites along the back of his shoulders down to his sacrum while John plied him open with his mouth and tongue, greedily taking in preparation and desperate need before filling him with his heavily weighted cock, sinking in all the way bollocks deep parting those pert cheeks.

"Fuck..." He moaned, forehead resting on his forearm, tears coursing down his face as he spun the image before his closed eyes. Deep in want, need, denial, he was loathe to touch himself, but had no other recourse to slake his goddamned core-driven stark need. "...Fuck!"

Oh, heavenly to run his hands along Sherlock's pliant shower heated body, gripping him bruising the fair flesh, anchoring them as John torturously brought them to climax. How he would rend cries, wrack the body pressed to him judiciously, until only pleasure was left. Only the ether, the umbra, the soft death of sighs and wanton languorous kisses.

"God bloody well damn it!" Pounding the side of his fist hard against the tile does nothing for John. "Why him?! Why us?" The cry wrenching from him before he even has a chance to stopper it. Hopefully, Sherlock was in his study, one blessed floor between their anguished states. He didn't need to hear John coming apart like this. No good could come of it.

The tears are just relentless.

Why, the fuck, did he even express the need for dominance? To restrain Sherlock after the ordeal? He knew better. And James? He should have knocked him right out and had him banned from further visitations with Sherlock. Oh, he had gone and made a right mess of things, hadn't he? Maybe Sherlock wasn't the only one with a problem of the ego. Every part of him railed and warred.

The brave soldier, wanting to fight for his love's honor and win him back. The doctor, wishing to sooth and heal. The lover wanting to plait new lines, true lines of desire to teach Sherlock what physical love could be. The friend, who wished above everything else, to just be the keystone for his friend and give support. Sliding down the wall, John tilted his head up to the spray before lowering it to his knees.

He felt no amount of atonement would ever be enough.

**Bang.**

_Christ that smarted_.

**Bang.**

A little harder that time and he saw little fairly points behind his eyelids, good. Maybe he'd crack his skull and drown in less than two inches of water. That would have to be more helpful than what he was doing currently. Maybe glue everyone together in mourning? Give Sherlock himself wholly in a way he never could, would ever be able to alive? It was highly unlikely he'd ever touch him any other way ever again.

_Fucking bastard are you? Mourning something you never even fucking had? Embarrassing. Weak. Un-neccesary._

_Oh, but he missed what he never had with such veracity he could spin it into being almost as if it were real..._

**Bang.**

**BAN-**

"John, no." The fingers cradled the back and base of his head, they had cushioned the blow scoopin and holding his torso upright against the currently getting soaked white linen shirt. "Whatever this is, you have to stop."

"I can't Sherlock," he tearfully admitted, weeping on the ruined clothing neither giving a bother. "I just can't. I love you and I can't...breathe...think...need...hel-"

"Shh, John. I'm here."

_Fuck, this was all so very many ways wrong._

_Sherlock was comforting him. No, not acceptable, but god, oh please..._

"I'm so very sorry...Sherlock. So very wrong about everything. I just...I wasn't there in time. I...you needed me and I wasn't there..."

"John, why are you bleeding?"

"Cut m'self. Needed release...some sort. Oh, fuck...Sherlock. You don't need to see...just please...oh...no please..."

The shame welled up now to replace the guilt and longing. There was no denying it now. Sherlock would see how pathetic, how self-centered, John had become and leave. It was all fine with him. He hadn't wanted Sherlock to see him this way, but maybe it was for the best.

Maybe then Sherlock would see the damage, internally even though just as self-inflicted, and just walk away as John deserved. It was just more physical proof that he had let this great man down yet again. Just another facet of failure.

"John. I don't understand, why?"

"Better to cut, than peeling my skin as I wish. Too tight casing...can't breathe anymore...too much in me..."

_Had he just said that outloud? Bloody hell._

Sherlock was ghosting his fingertips calculating all the thin lines, both new and healed. John just wept harder.

_Yes, see my shame, my hatred, my payment for faulting you, us, for not fulfilling my promise to always keep you from harms way._

"You've cut yourself 290 times, John...why?" Sherlock was wiping his thumbs down his forearms, knowing it would draw pain, but John accepted the penance the painful touch might bring. "What good will come of this?"

"It...I feel like I bleed the pressure away...I'm beginning to understand the practice I think, bloodletting. Exorcism of the soul through minute cuts or leeching. I just need to get the dark out..."

Both sitting in the steam of water now turning lukewarm, Sherlock drew John to him. John knew how much it had to be costing his friend to envelope John physically, from placing him in his lap, to wrapping his long arms protectively, to resting his chin on John's good shoulder his lips just millimeters from John's ear.

"Please, don't do this. For me, us. For you. I can't protect you from this, just like you couldn't protect me. We won't always be good, but we can be better..."

"Sherlock...how? How can it ever be better? I've lost you...I wanted...had hoped...we had so much time to figure everything out didn't we?"

"John, we are alive. Here and now. Neither of us died. Stop hurting yourself over something you had zero tactical control over. Come on now, lets get you out of the shower."

As Sherlock drew him to his feet, he realized what a wreck of a human he truly was. His blood, John's blood, covered most of Sherlock's shirt despite the water overhead, the shirt ruined. John went to unbutton it, to throw it into the bin, mentally switching gears to the physician portion of his rationale when the open hand slapped him as the other wrenched his hand then arm behind him pinning his chest to the cold tile wall.

"Do not, John. Do you understand? This was not an invitation. I was trying to console you."

He could hear the seething vehemence within the darkening timbre of his beloved's, no, no longer, of Sherlock's voice. Instantly he was flummoxed and embarrased to the point of tears all over again.

"Sorry, Sherlock." John managed without allowing the querulousness into his voice, "Instinct. Blood on your shirt. Ruined. So sorry. Nothing more, promise."

Back to the short succinct sentences. They seemed to work the best between them, even though they were extremely disjointed, the two were able to communicate. JOhn could feel the ire and shame rise within Sherlock now, and needed to crush it.

"I'm sorry, really. I'll patch up." John stated trying to exude calm, nurturing, and nothing more. "Bring tea down in a few?"

"I am perfectly capable of helping you John. Let me. I am not a child. Yes, I suffered a trauma, but I still worry about your wellbeing!"

_Oh, they do not need the strop..._

"Sherlock..."

"No, John! I. Will. Help."

_This was it...the breaking..._

John began to tremble with the rush of repressed adrenalin, he knew this would be bad, but he knew Sherlock was ready for a proper row, or at least the man believed he was. Fuck all.

_In for a penny..._

* * *

"Sherlock, if you do not leave, right now, things will get bad. I know. This might be your last warning. If we hurt one another, there may be no coming back..."

"I'm not some bleeding work of delicate art, John! I'm flesh and blood! I am going to help you because you need it! Because I need it too! If I can touch you in this manner, for god's sake let me!"

_In for a pound..._

He continued to curl his fingers into fists hoping to release some of what he felt. This was definitely going FUBAR. All he could do was pray to get Sherlock out of the ensuite, then he could lock the door from the inside separating them, giving them freedom to breathe without the other. This was a progressively dissolving situation with the weight of a singularity attached. Neither of them would be able to come out of this the other side.

"Sherlock, no good, I promise." John swallowed dryly before starting in, hoping to drive Sherlock back with his words. "I swear to you, I want to fuck you until we both can't breathe. You are practically naked in those sodding clothes, and I cannot stand it. I can see your magnificent prick, if I could, I would beg for it."

"I cannot breathe the same air right now, I can taste your blessed cologne, your shampoo, in the humidity. It's driving me mad. And I know, I cannot have you Sherlock. It's cruel. You don't mean to be, I know, but fucking love, beautiful _a chuisle mo chroí_, I can not have you now. Maybe ever. Yet I still love you until my veins run dry. That is why I do this..."

"JOHN!" The bark that escaped Sherlock was astounding. He was bright with embarrassment, never before spoken in this manner. He was categorising the new experience and strings of words for proper placement, yet still unrelenting. The immovable object.

"Even now, your pulse has ticked up, I can register it from here." John continued to take him apart with the precision of both a doctor and with the deductive skills he had gleaned from Sherlock himself. "Your pupils dilating as well...so is that fight or flight Sherlock? Time to choose I think."

John takes a step forward and stops when Sherlock stays rooted in place.

_Alright...unstoppable force then..._

"Mother Mary, do you not see with your bleeding eyes, what you are doing to me? Yourself? Like torture do you? All I want to do is taste that mouth, wreck it, make it bruised with our lovemaking...Fuck. You need to go."

Then two more steps in quick succession.

_Still holding firm. Chrissakes!_

"Fight then. Alright. Let's do this thing shall we? Come on..." He smiles in a soft but heated manner watching Sherlock's tells. "You are wonderful, brilliant, but oh so very careless at this moment. Shall I tell you what I wish to do? Touch myself while doing so? See, I can't do that. That would be horrible. I can't come to you, but I want to...need to Sherlock. I'm shedding tears, I'm frustrated, fucking so hard I'm leaking, just look at me. I'm spent. Done. Horribly gone over the moon for you and headed into hysteria...yet I refuse to sully what I believe would be glorious between us due to anger and bitterness."

"Please...John," Sherlock's eyes soften, still large, still aware and gathering. Decision made, he steps forward only once. "Don't throw this in my face the rest of our lives. Let me help."

"It's dangerous. I'm dangerous. To you. God damn it, Sherlock I'm a fucking crime scene waiting to happen." He raised his forearms together to make the point. They had stopped bleeding and were messily clotting forming light scabs. "You don't need this."

"Do not ever tell me what I do and do not need, John Hamish Watson." Sherlock's anger fueling him, he breached the gap dragging John into a merciless hold. "I am made of sterner stuff than you can imagine. If I could I would happily play with your insides just to feel them still pulsing in my bare hands. I want to eviscerate you and love you and have every ounce of you. I understand the dark. I just want you."

"You don't know me anymore. You don't want this..."

"You've murdered one hundred and forty three directly, in cold of them in close quarters, two by slow bleeds purposely. You made sure those two particularly hurt. One snapped neck, mercy killing. Swift. Clean. All to keep me safe. Us safe."

"Yes, I have. And I sleep very well thank you."

"Stop. Listen." Sherlock dropped his gaze to John's ear telegraphing, then ghosted to it breathing once before speaking gently. "I killed Moran."

John could have been transfigured into a marble statue he held so still.

"Not quite two days ago. When Mycroft took me out of doors so I would not go insane. I did skin him John. Well, I say skin...the point being is that he is taken care of. Out of the equation."

"And that helped, did it? I could tell by your reaction in the shower that you were doing loads better..."

"I'm holding you now aren't I?"

"Yes, though not really in what I would call a _friendly_ manner...sod this. I'll beg if I have too, don't make me, but I will."

"All I can promise, for now, is us. This. Everything else, may no longer be available John. That is a choice you have to make. How important is the physical ecstasy in our relationship. We've never experienced it, yet fell in love anyway." Sherlock steadily let go by increments until his touch was light, kissing John's mouth once, chastely, before leaving his rooms. "Please choose us, once again, John. Please."

_He gave us time...he still chose us. Giving me time..._

Later that evening, he brought the tea down to Sherlock's study as earlier promised. The heat of the day, once again, as always occurred, sapped out of them both.

On the tray along with their tea and digestives, a singular small box, once again, offered. This time in reply.


End file.
